


he didn't flap hard enough

by mackdizzy, prioriteas



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationship, Alcohol, Billford - Freeform, Blind Eye Society, Depravity Falls, Drunkenness, Dystopia, EXTREME intoxication this mfer is DRUNK, Government, Historical Sexuality References, Intoxication, M/M, Memory Loss, Mentions of Genocide and other unsavory Govt things, NO INCEST//ROMANCE, Rewrite, Romantic/Domestic abuse, Struggles with Sexuality, actually ima say "Billford", by historical i mean like. the 60s., dystopian government, not rlly good tags to say "Ford and Bill rule the multiverse and its fucked up", one of us au, tags will be updated as things occur!, thats the society not the episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23517568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackdizzy/pseuds/mackdizzy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/prioriteas/pseuds/prioriteas
Summary: || He chided me - as he often does - for staying up too late. "Don't forget what happened to Icarus," he told me as he packed up his things and left."He didn't flap hard enough," I replied.---Alex Hirsch, Journal 3 ||[[A (much longer), WIP Rewrite of my Stanuary Week III fic.]]
Relationships: Bill Cipher/Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 48
Kudos: 60





	1. if love is what you need, a soldier i will be

**Author's Note:**

> Heya, everyone! As you may have noticed, my Forduary Week IV fic, "he didn't flap hard enough", has been deleted. I got the first chapter out, and loved the idea, but very soon lost steam writing it. Instead, I changed direction into something similar--fleshing out and growing an earlier fic into something MUCH, MUCH more large in scale. 
> 
> [[This is going to be a REWRITE of my Stanuary Week III fic, "we're sick like animals, we play pretend". It's going to be much longer than the initial 3 chapters (though this is just a rewrite of the first), and a LOT MORE is going to happen. You're in for a ride, everyone.]]
> 
> [[I will tag triggers as they appear, but expect, at later points, to see at the very least mentions/after-effects (if not full on depictions) of graphic violence, drunkenness, gaslighting/mental torture, eye trauma, possible pseudo-self-harm as in the first edition, and Ford Pines Having A Lot Of Trauma.  
> Also, expect to see Billford--sort of. As per canon dynamic, we're going off of "Ford is a lovesick idiot and Bill is a lying piece of shit", and it's not going to be endgame, but expect to see it nonetheless, human forms and all (i Will Not write triangle romance.)]]
> 
> [[THERE IS NO INCEST / STANCEST IN THIS FIC.]]
> 
> Thank you all for enjoying, and I hope to see you at the end!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter title from The Cab's Angel With A Shotgun]

Stan Pines was not one for mysteries.

This had not always been the case. Once upon a time, Stanley Pines was one of a pair, and mystery had been their middle names. Stanley and Stanford Pines were the kings of New Jersey, and it seemed as if there was a new mystery every week for the two of them; The Jersey Devil, Pirate Raiders, Cave Ghosts, and secret agent mission after mission to escape their Pa’s wrath (it always made Ford feel better, that way).

But things changed. Things changed, mistakes were made (so many mistakes. God, so, so many mistakes), and Stanley Pines had currently not seen his brother in 12 years.

It had been a hard 12 years; that much was an understatement. Twelve years of shitty motel rooms and shittier car heating, of running and scraping and fighting and near-dying, again and again and _again_ , and Stan, currently, was not looking for any more mystery. For once in his life, he just wanted things to make _sense_ for him. He wanted the pieces to fit together for him. He wanted to stop scraping for answers like he scraped for food. He just wanted to stop being confused by everything. By the nature of the world, by how cruel humans could be, by all the little ways things worked that he could never seem to figure out.

Stan Pines was not interested in another mystery. Stan Pines was also not interested in any further contact with his brother; not like he shouldn’t, not like some tiny part of him past the grudges and anger didn’t desperately want to, not like his hands didn’t tremble around the phone time and time again before hanging it up before he could get a word out; he just...couldn’t. 

Stan Pines was not, however, about to get either of the things he wanted. Not after 2 PM, mailtime, when a letter slid its way through the slot of his apartment door. 

It was a neat letter, from the official US postal service. It didn’t have a sender’s address. He was worried there might be a bomb inside--a deadly poison trap--whatever. With his reputation, it might’ve been likely. But if there was _one_ thing Stan Pines had always had too much of, it was curiosity, so his fingers ripped open the seal and he pulled out two things.

One was a folded up note, with tidy but slightly messy handwriting on it. This he unfolded first, and read the following:

_\---Hiya! Sorry, this got lost in the bottom of my bag AGES ago! It was supposed to be here a week ago. I hope you weren’t waiting on anything important! Let’s hope the blood isn’t too serious :)._

**_\---Joe (your local mailman)._ **

The second envelope _inside_ the envelope did indeed have blood on it--not so much it was unreadable, but a decent amount at the very least, splattered across it. This envelope _did_ have a return address; it was an address he didn’t recognize from a town he had never heard of in a state he had never been to. Gravity Falls, Oregon. This was perhaps a sign that he should throw the letter in the trash, but the bloodstains had only increased his curiosity, so this seam he ripped as well, and he barely noticed the way his hands shook as he withdrew the letter.

There were three words on the page. Three words, and a lot of blood.

**Please Come.**

**_\---Ford._ **

Ford. Not Stanford. Not Stanford Pines. Ford. Also to note; messy handwriting. Not his brother at all. Stanford Pines wrote in tiny tiny letters that were perfectly spaced and so neat and so cursively loopy his dyslexia couldn't bear to focus on them. This was scribbled and sloppy and the letters were all different sizes. It looked like the time Ford had gotten too wrapped up in some equation to bother with his biology homework and had said to him, _You write, I'll talk_ , and the teacher had called them both down to see him after class and Ford had cried for 45 minutes about it.

Stan would’ve liked to say he thought on the letter for days and made a perfectly reasonable conclusion. Stan would've liked to say that, but it would've been a lie. Stan stuffed the note in his pocket, grabbed the bag that was always ready-packed by the door, and hightailed it 16 hours north in a beat-up Sedan, the letter taped to the sun visor the whole way. He didn’t stop more than was absolutely necessary, and finally, his snow-covered car pulled into the driveway of an _incredibly ....._ _interesting_ house.

It looked structurally sound, sure, but it was the most _triangular_ house he’d ever seen before. He hadn’t a single feeling why anyone would build a house like that, but leave it to his brother to move into one. He trudged through the snow to the front door, climbing the rickety porch steps and knocking three times.

No answer.

He ran a finger down the edge of the doorframe--he could feel bolts, two of them, and three separate locks. _Jesus, Ford. Paranoid, much_? He waited for an answer, knocking a few more times for good measure, and then sighed, shaking his head. He was going to need the lock picking kit from his bag to get in. Despite the fact that he could break in most normally secured doors, Ford seemed to want to secure his house better than the US Mint, so out the kit came. 

It took him 45 whole minutes to even get inside, and he couldn’t say his heart wasn’t racing the entire time, but once he did, he was met with quite the sight. Paper littered every available inch of the house, books were skewed left and right--there was ink and blood splattered on the floor, and a thick coating of dust in the air, so bad it made him cough. It seemed like nobody had been up here in _weeks_ , or if so, they’d been _seriously_ neglecting the place.

“Ford?” He called, walking through the house. He went into the kitchen, the first floor bathroom, the first floor bedroom, and upstairs to the loft, but nothing. The whole time, it felt like he was being watched-- maybe he was, maybe it was his nerves, but it might’ve also been accredited to the fact that there were _eyes_ drawn in every corner of the house, on every wall, etched into every surface, in dust and glitter and ink and gold and blood. Eyes and triangles. He had no idea the cause of either, but whatever was happening in this house, it was starting to creep him out, and his brother was nowhere to be found.

Once or twice, he contemplated the fact that Ford might even be dead, but...no. He wouldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t let himself think about that until he’d scanned the entire _world_ for a different conclusion first, damnnit.

The world could wait. He started with the house, scraped it top to bottom for clues. Nothing. Right as he was about to go through a second round, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before, set into the wall of the living room.

Stairs. There was a basement.

There was a flashlight tacked to the wall behind the doorway, and he grabbed it immediately, shining it into the musty air below. He took the steps slowly, but with the sort of energy of someone who wanted to be to the bottom _very_ quickly. It didn't take much more walking before he came to an elevator (Now _this_ was Ford-y.) There were two levels below the main house; he tried to go to story II first, but was greeted by a dark mahogany door (inset into the wood was another triangle) that was locked _so_ securely even his kit couldn’t get him in. Then, he tried the bottom.

He never would’ve been prepared for what he saw down there. 

First, a long hallway, metal floors, computers and other gear so high-tech he couldn’t recognize it on every wall. Screens, showing the house, and places he didn’t recognize. Mainframe technology, science equipment--this was the most _Ford-y_ place he’d seen so far, and seeing it filled him with a deep sense of comfort, like all hope was not lost. He didn't even get to the end of the room, however, before he stopped completely short, rooted to the ground, because in front of him was a giant wall of plexiglass.

And behind the giant wall of plexiglass, there was an _actual fucking_ _legit_ **_portal._**

He knew it was a portal immediately--that much was obvious. What was really shocking, though (if the portal didn't do it for him), was the fact that he was pretty sure it was still _on_. Particles of paper and dust and blood swirled in the air in front of it, and he was too scared to go through the metal door that separated it from the rest of the basement. And in that instant, he had a terrible suspicion that he knew exactly where his brother was. 

He didn’t jump to conclusions. He scanned every inch of that house for the next five days for any clues, sleeping in the loft away from the portal, digging through as much of his brother’s scienc-y stuff as he could get his hands on. He found nothing of any interest whatsoever. Half of it was in code, half of it was in English but in words too big and fancy for him to grasp at first glance, and a lot of it was scribbled out in ink--or in blood. 

It was five days of unsuccessful hunting later when he decided he had no choice, and he was going to see what was on the other side of that portal if it was going to kill him (he tried not to think about the likeliness of that option too hard). So, once he was sure he had brass knuckles in his pocket (though he wasn’t sure why) and a loaded pistol on his belt (though he wasn’t sure _why),_ he once more grabbed his always ready utility bag, slung it over his shoulder, and entered the room behind the metal door. 

The portal’s energy was _magnetic_ , and he was swept off his feet almost immediately. He flustered around in the air for a bit before deciding _To Hell with it_ , and made sure his bag was on tight and his pistol was secure before letting the energy of the portal take him through to the other side. If he ended up without them, he’d be sort of screwed, but he’d been in stickier situations before. It was just a giant random portal in the basement of a house of a scientific genius possibly leading to space or somewhere worse, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Famous last words. 


	2. i'm the king and you're the queen and well, we'll stumble through heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter Title from Halsey's Young God]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2, everyone! This one's more "different" than the previous, and things are about to get a WHOLE lot more interesting!

Stan wasn’t sure what he was expecting on the other side of a portal. An empty vacuum of stars. A multidimensional apocalyptic wasteland. A chromium prison. A torture chamber. Something, _something_ parallel to the amount of blood in the house, the paranoid ramblings, the _eyes_ _everywhere._

He wasn’t expecting a backyard.

He wasn’t expecting a backyard, and yet on the other side of the portal, he came—bag, gun, knuckles, and all—into not just a backyard, but what looked like a _giant_ backyard. The biggest, swankiest backyard he’d ever seen, in fact, protected by a black wrought iron fence that towered into the sky with barbed wire at the top. Over a row of hedges pointed like a picket fence a ways away, he could see a building rising into the sky--modern and hospitable enough to be some sort of giant mansion, but it was covered in towers and spires, like some sort of castle--it almost seemed to be a version of the very triangular house he’d come from with a 5 million dollar budget. It was the singular nicest house-manor-castle-pyramid-thing he’d ever seen, even if the color scheme was a bit creepy, all blacks offset by shades of gold. He figured there was nothing better to do than to approach, knock on the doors, and explain the situation; maybe it was a random placement sort of thing with the portals, and he hoped the people inside would be friendly. If not, he had weapons. He knew how to fight. 

Before he made it to the back doors, though, he had to pass through the largest garden he had ever seen in his life. Perfectly cut, perfectly green grass, fountains, hedges, white orchids and trellises of ivy. It truly was beautiful, and, as if the heavens had aligned for this one perfect moment, there was someone else in it, using a pair of hedge clippers on what looked to be roses made of real gold, but somehow alive.

It was his brother.

Or, at the very least, it was someone who looked like his brother. Same soft brown curls, same oversized browline glasses, same tiny cleft in his chin, same laugh lines, same six-fingered hands, same mousy brown eyes-- _almost._ When he looked over at him, the sunlight caught something in his eyes, and they flashed with hints, speckles of gold, for only a second. Then, gone, but if you tilted your head the right way, they were still there.

Except--this _wasn’t_ his brother, in so many ways. Black robes, a shawl, and collar that made him look almost like _Catholic Priest,_ which was weird in so, so many ways he couldn’t even begin to fucking count them, overset with an incredibly luxurious cloak; black velvet, with white trim and a gold chain, gold satin on the inside and a train trailing into the grass behind him. A crown sat sideways in his curls, gold and black like everything else he was wearing. Most of all, what wasn’t his brother was the look on his face as he turned to face him; the gold flashing through his eyes, maybe, but also the raised eyebrows and the unnerving smile, almost psychotic.

“You’re trespassing.” He spoke, and yes, it was Ford’s voice, though it was tinted weird, offset with intonation that, frankly, _scared_ him. From somewhere within his robes he withdrew a dagger, small, black with tiny jewels in gold and red, and studied it like one of the science experiments he would spend weeks cooped up in his room working on. He held it up to the light, and suddenly, Stan felt a terror bubbling in him, like some supernatural force. He didn’t even know where it came from, but regardless, he held his breath. And then, _horrifyingly_ , Ford ran it along the palm of his hand. Blood ran down the side of his wrist and he looked at that, too, like he was studying it, smiling like it amused him, before pointing the blade straight Stan’s way. “I could kill you for that, you know.” He held up two fingers on his free hand, the one that wasn’t clutching a dagger and covered in blood. “Snap my fingers and you’d be gone. Would you be missed, out here? Would anybody remember you even existed?”

Stan didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to say. _He’s family,_ he would’ve liked to think. _He won’t hurt you._ But now--now, he wasn’t sure. All of this was bad. _Really_ bad. Stan was regretting his decision to come here a _lot_. Maybe Ford had changed, maybe the letter had been an accident, or... or something. For a minute he just stared, dumbfounded, and Ford chuckled, putting the knife back. “I won’t, don’t worry.” He said. “I’ve simply got too many _questions.”_ Ford-not-Ford came closer then, circling around him like a hungry bird, and Stan thought that was as good a time as any to get a word in. He laughed, but it was a little unnerved.

“Ford, it’s me. Your brother? Stanley? Come _on_ , I know it’s been a while, but...” He, at the very least, expected Ford to _remember_ him, especially when _he_ had been the one to ask _Stan_ to come.

But Ford simply raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms across his chest. "Ford." He remarked. “Getting cocky today, are we? I'm pretty sure that's _Your Highness_ to you...." And then he trailed off and studied Stan curiously, like he was trying to read his mind, or something.

“Your--” He started to laugh, just at the absurdity of the situation, but then something seemed to shift in Ford’s eyes (They looked browner, for a moment) and he straightened up, his expression almost looking... _lost._

".....Stanley?"

It was so sudden, so on-a-dime, that Stan stopped short, but Ford's next words made him eventually break into a bigger smile, laugh in a way that was much more real.

"Stanley, I--what are you _doing_ here? Why didn't you write _earlier?_ I must've..." he trailed off, and then turned in a circle for a moment, as if lost in his own head, before continuing. "Forgotten. It must've been....." Trailed off again, ran his finger through the air. "I'm sorry, if I had.....I came here, and--well, if I'd remembered, I would've written, and..."

Stan was a little worried, with all the talking in _circles_ Ford seemed to be doing, but then his brother clapped his hands together, excited all at once. "Will you come in?" He gestured behind him to the Fearamid. "We love company, and _You'll_ love Bill----We don't bite, I _promise._ The press---Eugh." He waved a hand dismissively and rolled his eyes. "Please tell me you'll stay? If just for a while?"

It seemed at least, now, that Ford was less likely to _stab_ him, but the change had still been so sudden that the way he lowered his hands was still cautious; defensive. “Um. Okay- I- sorry, this is a _lot_. You’re... you sent me that letter, remember? I thought you were in trouble, or something, is-“ That obviously wasn’t the case. He wondered, briefly, if he should count his blessings and just let this go, for now. Be glad that Ford wasn’t going to stab him, and ask questions later. He decided against this. No, he needed answers, now. 

Ford’s eyebrows furrowed; he looked more confused than anything else. Very slowly he studied the knife, and then clicked the fingers on his free hand; the cut on his knife hand healed itself instantly, and he slipped it away altogether, somewhere. "No, I..." He shook his head, laughing a bit. "What _letter?_ I don't remember writing a letter. I mean--I mean, I'm glad I found the time to write it, but...no, I don't remember any letter. I must've....written it before I passed through……”

He seemed done, then, after he rambled onto himself, which Stan was about to comment on uneasily, but he changed derivative. “Slow down, just.. give me a second. “What- Where are we, even, first of all?”

Ford only scoffed, the _isn’t it obvious_ sort of scoff he had never stopped loving, and the slightly-jealous anger that had never stopped following bubbled inside Stan. "We're....we're at the Fearamid." He gestured behind him again, and oh, _that_ was the stupidest name he’d ever heard, maybe ever. "Dimension three-point-oh. I'm--not even sure how you got here, it's not on the IDH." He said with a little laugh. "But I'm glad you're here, really."

Stan had so many questions. IDH? Dimension? And why was Ford talking like _that,_ all prideful, all haughty, all _proud?_ But he shoved them all past the swirling gut of unease. “I just came through…” He gestured vaguely. “I mean, I found the portal in your basement, and--”

"Oh, you were in my old _house?_ " Ford cringed, visibly. "It's still a mess, I'm sorry." And Ford sure said that like a _really cluttered_ sort of mess, and not a _triangles painted in blood everywhere_ sort of mess, but he didn’t push. 

“Geez--okay, sorry. I, uh.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. He almost felt self-conscious. Underdressed. _Something._ It was a weird feeling. He felt like he was struggling to fit into a suit at one of Pa’s business dinners, not around _Ford._ “Oh. Um--” He remembered the letter might’ve still been in his pocket, and--yes, it was. He withdrew it, handing it over. Ford looked at it like he had never seen it in his life, shaking his head blindly.

“I don’t...remember writing this.” It’s a lot more _Ford-like_ , soft and timid and meek once more; he wasn’t speaking like he owned the whole world anymore, and Stan was glad to hear it.

“Well--you signed it.” Stan said. “It’s your handwriting,” because he’d seen that handwriting all over the house, frenetic, scared, in words that were so obviously his brother’s.

“So it is.” Ford mused, and then he shoved it in his pocket, speaking under his breath. “I’ll talk to Him about it later.” 

“Or you could just talk to me about it now, Fordsie!”

Stan jumped almost a foot into the air; someone else had appeared, _right_ behind them. There was someone else in the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for supporting so far! I'd love a comment if you enjoyed! They keep me motivated to write more, always!
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3


	3. please leave all overcoats canes and top hats with the doorman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter title from Panic at the Disco's there's a reason these tables are numbered]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[I went back and edited the first two chapters for some minor editing and formatting errors. Going to try to have to do that less, in the future!]]

Stan hated him. Instantly.

From the minute--no, the _second_ \--mystery Him capital H appeared in the garden, there wasn’t a single thing about him Stan didn’t despise. He hated his clothes, his face (very punchable), his hair, his expression, the way he walked, the way he stood. More despicable than anything, though, was the way Ford reacted to his presence; Ford, as well, jumped in surprise, but instead of recoiling, he lit up like a child on Christmas and sort of… _leaned_ on the other man, in a show that was equal parts disgustingly sentimental and slightly alarming (okay, okay, mostly alarming). “Bill,” He cooed, “This is my _brother,_ Stanley. Stanley, Bill-" He gestured between them, in all the grandeur of a press agent introducing two celebrities. 

He just stood there, staring Bill down, and Bill did much of the same. It looked, to him at least, like Bill was just as distasteful of him as he was of Bill. He hated to say the idea gave him comfort, but it did all the same. "Is it alright if he comes in, babe?” Chimed in Ford, at this point hanging off Bill’s shoulder-- “I haven't seen him in years."

Wait. Wait. “Babe,” he repeated, almost dazed, raising his eyebrows and staring at Ford for a few seconds. So.. that was a lot to unpack, for a lot of reasons. “So you’re-“ He gestured between his brother and Bill a few times, and did his best not to look as unhappy with this as he was. “With this guy?”

“Mhm!” Said Ford and Bill in perfect unison (weird.) “‘With this guy,’ indeed!” Bill still hadn’t stopped staring at him with his one huge (creepy) eye, hands still clasped behind his back. He had a huge grin on his face, now, like he knew what Stan was thinking. Then, he tilted his head in Ford’s direction, eye not moving from Stan. “Of course! Anything for, ah, Stanford’s _family_ .” It creeped him out, the whole thing. _Bill_ creeped him out, especially with the way he shooed Ford off, the offhanded smile he gave. “Why don’t you show him inside?” he said. It was phrased like a suggestion, but obvious to Stan that it wasn’t one. “I’ve got a few things to do.”

"Oh." Something fell in Ford's face the moment Bill stepped away. Stan could read all too well what he did next, the smoothing over of his facial features, the way he did when he was trying to mask something--disappointment, sadness, negativity, usually. "Yeah babe, of course. I'll show him in, uh--see You tonight?" Ford practically sounded desperate, and it made his stomach churn. Bill had already turned and started on his way. He made a noncommittal noise and raised a hand in a wave, then he was gone.

Stan, really genuinely, had no idea what to say. Maybe he should’ve been saying something _positive,_ commenting on their relationship, but he just couldn’t find it in himself after the show he’d seen. Instead, he offered; “S...So, is that normally how things go? Between, uh, _you_ two?” 

  
  


“Mmm...hm.” Ford responded, seemingly distracted. "You know how the press gets. We're together, we're not, it's yes, it's no, it's..." He laughed. "It's good press." Ford seemed to brighten a bit at that, which didn’t surprise Stan all too much. As socially anxious as he could get, as much as he pretended he didn’t, he’d always enjoyed the spotlight. "But yes, it's true." And to this, Ford looked like he'd never been happier about any prospect in his life--almost like, but to an even greater extent, the way he'd looked when he'd told him about the West Tech scholarship.

_That_ filled him with a gruesome reminder that he should be happier about this one, too. As much as he immediately hated this man, it would’ve been somewhat okay if the whole thing seemed... healthy. The problem was, it didn’t seem that way at all. The difference in Bill and Ford’s attitudes towards one another was _striking_. But Ford seemed done with the conversation at that point, turning to re-enter the house. "We'll walk." He said, which seemed a little strange to Stanley, like there might’ve been another option. "So--tell me, what have _you_ been up to for twelve years?"

“Um.” Stan didn’t want to go into that. He really didn’t. It would do nothing but put a damper on the mood, and as bitter as he was about the whole thing, he didn’t want that for Ford. “Traveling, mostly.” Good enough, he figured, attempting to diverge the conversation back in Ford’s direction. “Anyway, what’s the deal with all this?” He was looking around with a mix of curiosity and nervousness. It was _cool_ , he’d admit that much. “Like, what, you and Bill run stuff around here?” He felt almost stupid, asking that. It was obvious that, yes, that was indeed the case, but Stan wanted more information.

"Um..." Ford laughed a bit nervously, once again one of those _Have you been living under a rock?_ Laughs, and once again, he felt a bit bitter about it.. "Yes, Bill and I, we.....run--we _rule_ the Multiverse. It's been about--" He counts on his fingers. "Eight months? Nine?" 

Stan did a double take, trying to work through the pieces in his head. He’d received that letter--that cry for help--almost a week ago, which means at tops, it was written two weeks ago. Not nine months. None of this made _sense,_ and it only added to his growing suspicion about the whole thing. "Something like that. Anyway, we rule the multiverse. It's been good, Stanley. For us, for _everyone._ "

Stan sure hoped so, about that last part. 

They’d reached the back doors of the palace now (He was _not_ using that stupid name, he was _not)._ Ford waved a hand and the marble back doors opened, then he clapped twice and his cloak removed itself from his shoulders, folded neatly, and disappeared. "Do you want me to take your coat?" He offered, tilting his head.

  
  


Stan looked around, a little bit in awe. Marble pillars, high arching ceilings, everything done up in blacks and golds. “Jeez, you’ve always been ambitious, but this is kinda crazy, huh?” He looked up, suddenly, when he realized Ford had asked him something. “Uh- no, that’s okay. I’ll keep it on.” 

His coat was familiar. _Nothing_ else was familiar.

“But you- I mean, looks like you’ve really done well for yourself.” Understatement. _Big_ understatement. It would’ve been very easy to feel jealous, with all of this, but after twelve years, he found that impossible. “It’s good to see you again.” He looked back at Ford when he said this, because it was true. After all the shit with the knife had died down, it really was good to see Ford again. Even in this wacky context.

"It's....It's good to see you too, Stanley. I thought, after the highschool thing, I might...never see you again." This wasn't the time for apologies, or heart-to-hearts, or anything of the sort, so Stan just half-heartedly put up a hand and waved it off. "I'm glad you're here. Anyway." He sighed, waving his hand. It was a dismissive sort of gesture, one that wasn’t very familiar to Stan. "I can take you anywhere, where would you like to see? There's a bowling alley, a home theater, the entertainment room, the pool--it's always summer here." He sighed, fidgeting with his sleeves once more. That, at the very least, was something familiar. "I sort of wish you could stay forever, Stanley. But please know you're welcome to visit _any_ time, alright? I...I miss you. I miss you a lot, actually." He sighed, leaning against one of the triangular pillars in the corner. "It's--I've done well, sure, but it hasn't been entirely the same."

Stan glanced away again. He felt bad. He _did_ , but there wasn't much he could do about it now. He didn't _want_ to do anything about it now. Why screw up seeing his brother for the first time in over an entire decade with that shit? "Are... _you_ staying here forever, then?" Stan had ignored Ford's question, and moved right on to the next thing. He didn't like the implications behind that. "Like... as in, never coming home?" It bothered him, too, the way Ford was talking. He seemed happy here, but it was like there was an underlying issue with it all. It was like really, under all of it, he was _upset_ and not dealing well with any of this. Stan... didn't like that. How long had he been alone with this _Bill_ in the …in here? 

"Wh--" Ford laughed, gently, shaking his head. "Of course I'm staying here forever, Stanley. This _is_ my home. I--I told you, though, you can visit anytime. Our doors are always open to you."

Ford had moved on. Of course. It was only natural, right? Ford had everything, here. A palace. A boyfriend. A multiverse to rule. “Of course. Yeah.” Ford had moved on, and Stan The Screw-Up had never been able to, but that didn’t mean he needed to drag Ford back with him. 

He just... felt weird, about all of this. All of it. He didn’t like the idea of Ford in this place. “Um.” _Oh_ , and there was another thing. Stan didn’t want to pile heavy conversation topic after heavy conversation topic onto his brother, but.. “So, Bill, huh? That’s- How long has that been going on?” 

He felt... weird about that, for a couple of reasons. First, obviously, he didn’t like the guy. One bit. But the second reason, and--this probably wasn’t as good a reason for feeling weird about it, but still--was that Bill was a _guy_. Stan didn’t... care, really, but he’d never even considered that being a possibility before. Ford had never been super interested in girls, but this was a bit of a surprise. He wondered how long Ford had known—if he’d known in high school—and his heart was suddenly sinking at the idea that, maybe, Ford had been afraid to tell him. The idea hurt, a lot.

"Oh!" That got Ford to perk right up, apparently, and once again Stan felt almost _guilty_ for his apprehension. "Um, officially, only since we've gotten here, so....a little under a year. But in total, knowing eachother, it's been almost six years now." "He's--um." There was a pause, as Ford considered his words. "I don't really know where to start. Delightful.....Everything. Everything anyone could ever ask for." Gently, he brushed a lock of golden-tipped hair behind his ear. He could tell, just by the look in his eyes, just by the way he gestured and spoke, that Ford was _lovesick._ Happy, too, really happy. 

That was going to have to be enough for him. 

"I told you, I'm.....I'm blessed. He chose _me._ He chooses one mind a century to inspire, and.....He chose _me,_ and we did what nobody was able to before." He studied his hands, closing and opening them, and Stanley wondered about that, too, wondered if what he’d been able to give him when they were kids wasn’t…enough. "I've always been so.... _different,_ Stanley, but not around Him. I was born to love Him. Really."

And then there’s a pause, and for some reason it’s uncomfortable, and thick. Ford’s the one who breaks it, after a minute or two. "Oh." He says. It's a very, _very_ quiet 'oh,' and his hands go to his sleeves, and he _stares_ at the back wall. "Um." He says, very quietly. "It's not....other places aren't really like home." 

It seemed, suddenly--and it was jarring--that Ford seemed _afraid_ of what to say. That hurt. More than anything, that hurt. “Ford,” he said quietly. His expression softened, and he tried to sound as gentle as he possibly could. “Hey. I don’t... I mean, I-“ He took a deep breath. He had a bad feeling about _Bill,_ sure, but this was his brother, and Ford was so happy, now. And it wasn’t about the other thing, nor would it _ever_ be. “If you’re happy, I don’t care who you decide to be with. Okay? I don’t want you to feel.. uh, _scared_ of what I’m gonna say? You’re my brother no matter what.” He paused, then. “And I’m sorry. If you’ve ever felt scared of telling me about anything like this.”

"It wasn't--- _you_ , that I was scared of." Ford tries to explain, and he looked guilty. He looked guilty and Stan wanted to cut him off right there, but he decideed it would be for the best to let him get it out. "I've never been scared of you, Stanley, and there's nothing you need to apologize for, it's just....I just...I was tired of being so different. Scared, I think. Back then, in highschool, in college, even after, I thought I was...." his lips pursed. "I thought I was a freak. I mean, everyone did, for--so many reasons, the hands, I was just _different,_ but." He shook his head. "He makes me feel like I'm not a freak, like I'm _special._ It's a good kind of different. I belong here, Stanley, with Him, where I can be _better_ like that. For the good of everyone."

Once again, there was that _everyone_ that made him uncomfortable, that little bit of jealousy. Maybe it was guilt masking itself as jealousy. “Hell, I could'a told you that.” Of course Ford was special. He’d always been special. “But, um— if you really think it’s better for you here, I won’t stop you from being here.”

That was kind of a lie. If Ford continued to think things were better for him here, and Stan decided that they were, in fact, _not_ , he’d definitely try to tell him so. He wouldn’t hesitate to tell Ford exactly what he thought at any given time. 

“I’m guessing you’ve never told anyone else, then? I mean, before all this.” Stan hoped not. He really, really hoped Ford hadn’t tried to tell their parents anything. He couldn’t even imagine how horribly that’d go.

"Um....no." Ford shook his head. "No. I mean, once I got to Gravity Falls, it was just Bill and I, and once we got out _here_....there's other things for people to care about now. So, it is.....it is better for me here." 

He didn’t like _all_ the insinuations behind that, but he let it go with the relief that Ford had never hadn’t had to deal with any sort of rejection, any sort of... that mess. He’d never wish that on anyone, especially not his brother.

A moment passes, maybe two, and before he can say anything else, Ford’s arms were wrapped tight around his neck, and his head was buried in his shoulder (even after they’d both filled out, Ford remained just a few inches shorter, so he was on his tiptoes), and he was breathing a little more deeply. “I missed you, Stanley.” He muttered, and there was another pang of uneasiness--was being treated this kindly as alien as anything else, to Ford?--but he shoved it down, wrapping his arms around his brother and holding him _close,_ close and _protective._ He would protect him, he decided, listening suddenly as he could detect the soft notes of a piano from down the hallway. Ford heard it too, and stiffened up.

Yes, he would protect him, and everything else could come out in the wash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna HAVE to write a sexuality talk into a GF fic eventually, folks. I hope this wasn't too much what anyone was expecting!! If you're enjoying what I've written so far, I'd really appreciate a comment. Things are only gonna get more interesting from here!


	4. love me, love me, say that You love me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter Title from The Cardigans' Lovefool]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A GROSSLY SHORT chapter to make up for a longer wait, so sorry about that one! Hope you enjoy nonetheless. We do get a new POV in this chapter about halfway through, though it won't be the last we get in this fic ;).

Ford perked right up, once more, when he heard the music. Stan figured it must be Bill playing, to get him to react like that. The change his brother made whenever Bill was near or brought up was a little unnerving, with just how honeymoon-period it was. After all, it had been _nine months._ It seemed a little…unrealistic, for Ford to continue to be _this_ happy.

Ford smiled and beckoned Stanley along, two doors down the hall. Stan followed, apprehensive at the idea of being around Bill again, but once again, he disliked the idea of being alone in here more. "That's my cue." Ford said with a little smile. There were practically hearts in his eyes. Stan felt disgusted.

Ford paused outside the doors with his fingertips on the wood, his ear close to the door, before smiling once more towards Stan. "It's pretty, isn't it?" He whispered. "I'm pretty sure He wrote it, years ago."

“Yeah. It’s... good.” He supposed it fit in with Bill’s personality, playing music. He really was the kind of person he _could_ see Ford liking. Bill had the whole ‘classy’ act down. Almost _too_ down, if you asked him.

Ford entered the room, leading him behind by the hand. He crossed to another one of the triangular pillars, this one just inside the door, and leaned against it, locking eyes across the room with Bill. The song was gentle, easily melodic, and Bill was humming along, looking back at Ford in a way that was nothing more than coy. Then he tipped his top hat--a gold crown adorned it--without moving his hands. The song finished with a bit of an overdramatic flourish, and then Bill teleported briefly, lounging on the top of the piano. “Any requests?” he asked, and when he did his voice echoed (the room was _huge_ ). “I’ll be here _all_ night!”

Ford waved two chairs into appearance, ornately backed and gold cushioned, and took one of them, gesturing to the other as he looked as Stan. "Oh, _anything._ " He said through laughter, before pausing and shaking his head. "Wait, wait, waitwaitwait--" He _giggled,_ then, actually giggled, something Stan hadn’t heard him do since middle school. "I lied. Can you play the one about the stars?"

Bill gestured as if he was bowing, but Stan saw it. It was just a millisecond, but Stan saw it, the way that before he bowed, his eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. It was over, now, and Bill was smiling, but Stan had seen it. “Anything for _you_ , Sixer.” Then, he was back on the bench. A beat, and then he was playing again. 

Anything good Stan had thought about Bill in the past several minutes vanished.

No. _Oh_ , no. 

He’d just called Ford ‘Sixer.’ That was _theirs_.

He looked at Ford, ready to be outraged, but noticed the look on his face, the sickening _goo-goo eyes,_ and was suddenly just _hurt_ again. Sixer had come out of the torment they’d dealt with as kids. It had _weight_ behind it. It wasn’t some stupid, meaningless word. It was supposed to be a reminder of everything Stan and Ford had gone through together. That they were a _team_ . As the song started, Stan looked back forward, but his blood was boiling. He didn’t think he’d been this mad in _years_. Ford didn’t care, obviously. Why would he? Maybe Stan was just being nostalgic. They weren’t a team, anymore. They hadn’t been for years. Ford had just moved on, like he had in so many other ways.

Stan just wished he’d let this one thing _stay_ theirs. How had Bill found out about that nickname? Had Ford told him? Willingly given away what had been theirs? Out of jealousy, bitterness, _hatred?_ It seemed like the only possibility, at this point.

Ford scooched his chair just a bit closer to Stanley, brushing their legs together. He tried, surely, to feel happy, but he couldn’t find it in himself; not even when Ford pushed their shoulders together, like they were twelve again. They were close, now, but Ford still had eyes only for Bill. He was more than relieved when the song ended and Ford yawned gently--by now his head was on Stan's shoulder, though he wasn't entirely sure how that had happened. "Play another one, babe?" Ford requested, his voice barely above a whisper (manipulative as ever), rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Why, _Fordsie_ ,” _(Gross,)_ “You’re practically falling asleep!” Bill suddenly appeared behind their chairs, and while Stan jumped again, Ford stayed put, craning his head back up at Bill as he put a hand on his shoulder. Stan knew what Bill was smirking at. “There’ll always be time for more of this, later, hm? Besides, I’m sure our _guest_ is tired, too!” He emphasized the word ‘guest’ probably far more than was necessary.

Stan hated this. He hated that Bill could appear anywhere he wanted, any _time_ he wanted. It made him uncomfortable, especially when the place Bill chose was directly behind him. He’d almost _relaxed,_ before, though at first, he hadn’t been sure at all how to respond to... that. Ford coming closer. But, ultimately, it was a good thing, wasn’t it? It was comforting, at least. It was a familiar action, from their childhood, which meant some of those memories remained. Of course, Bill had fucked that up pretty well, (and Stan was fairly sure it was on purpose), but whatever.

"It's been an exciting day." Ford said softly, very slowly moving _off_ Stanley and back onto Bill. "Are you staying the night?" He asked, softly. "We have eleven bedrooms not counting the master. I can show you all of them, if you want, or.....one of them is ocean themed, I think, you might like that one."

“I- yeah, sure. If that’s okay.” Stan didn’t even know how he’d get _back_ , if he wasn’t staying. This wasn’t exactly like popping off across the street for a visit. He still felt out of place, though, and tacked on the bit in the end because of this.

“Well!” Bill regarded Stan in a way that made him feel _very_ uneasy. “That’s settled, then. It’s a _bit_ of a _walk_ , though!” He removed his hand and stepped around the side of Ford’s chair so he was standing beside him, instead. “Just,” he snapped his fingers, “would be easier.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “What, like what you’ve been doing? I...” He didn’t know how he felt about that. He wasn’t a fan of the concept in general. The quickness of it had an appeal, but... first, he liked to actually see where he was walking, and he also couldn’t _do_ that.

Ford seemed to relax a lot more, at least, a smile adorning his features, when Bill did indeed say it was alright for Stan to say. "Oh, sure you can." Ford finished Stan's thought for him. "If you're here, you can do it." He promised him. "You don't even have had to see the room before. Just..." Very gently, Stan noticed, he reached out and placed his hand over his brother's. "Just focus on it, where you want to go, and snap yourself there. It's easy. And it's not _temporal,_ there's no chance of anything going wrong--it'll either happen or not, you won't get dismembered or anything." He looked up at Stanley, his eyes softening. "Just give it a try?" He asked softly, like when Stan taught him how to ride a bike, like when Ford helped him with algebra homework. "It _is_ a long walk."

Bill didn’t say anything else, just stared. He stared at Stan, _coldly_ . He could tell Bill wasn’t happy, and shot Ford a look. He obviously didn’t think he could do this—that it was even _possible_ , really—but it was looking like there wasn’t much of a choice, anymore. So, he sat there, feeling like an idiot, and tried to visualize the room Ford had described. Ocean-themed. It sounded... nice. And then, just when he was starting to think it absolutely wasn’t going to happen, he was standing there, right in the middle of a new room. He stumbled, a little (going from sitting to standing was _weird_ ). 

He’d done it, and he was weirdly proud of himself for it. The room was indeed ocean-themed, and something about it was familiar, and comforting. He changed for bed as quickly as possible (thank God he still had his bag), flopped down onto the covers, and was asleep before he could even get under them.

  
  


**_\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_ **

  
  


Stanford Cipher had had a long day.

It wasn’t every day, after all, your long-lost brother came to visit you in your multiversal palace with your demon boyfriend; it wasn’t every day you _remembered_ you had a long-lost brother in the first place. But here, alone with Bill at last (as lovely as it was to have Stanley here, he _needed_ his alone time with Bill, too), he was able to let his guard down.

  
  


“He sure seemed _overwhelmed_.” Bill sounded amused, but playfully so, and Ford got it, really. Stan’s visit had been quite…unexpected. “Really not his scene, is it?”

  
  


"He'll get used to it." Ford quickly said in his brother’s defense; Stanley was adaptable, and Ford knew this was a situation he would get used to quickly. Then, he realized that might not have been the _right_ thing to say, at least not so soon, and furrowed his eyebrows. "Or he won't, it's....not a huge deal. I promise he won't be here for long, alright? I just....missed him. He's not used to this, but....I don't think many people would be." Bill was first. Stanley--everything else--was secondary. He had to remember that.

"He seemed rather....unaware, actually, of what We've been doing, I thought it was quite strange." It was just an offhanded comment, nothing more. There was nothing he didn’t trust about Bill, and--now wasn’t really the time to talk it through. Now was the time to be peaceful. He walked a few steps closer and wrapped his arms around Bill's waist, sighing as he looked up at him. "Thank You for letting him stay." He said, softly, _softly._ He was still working his way around these things. 

“Hm-mm.” Bill shrugged, and Ford thought it was a bit cold, but then he draped his arms over his shoulders, and somewhere in the necessity, Ford found room to melt. He didn’t close the distance, but Bill did soon enough, making it an actual hug. “Well,” he said, “Like you said, he won’t be around for long! Hardly matters.”

"No, hardly." If Bill didn’t want Stanley to stay, he wouldn’t. Anything to continue this soft intimacy; anything at all.

Ford felt Bill’s fingers in his hair through the lace in his gloves, and tilted his head up into the touch. “You _know_ all I want is your happiness, Stanford!” 

"Thank You." He said, once again absurdly soft. That softened him, quite a bit, hearing that. Something so... _beautiful,_ to see Bill _care_ so much about him...it moved him in a way he couldn't begin to understand. "You're right, though, I am tired." He looked back up, then. "Meet me upstairs?"

“I’ll be there soon,” promised Bill, and that was all Ford needed to hear before he snapped himself away for the moment. He changed with another snap into his pajamas (gold, satin, etched with triangles, thin, short-sleeved; anything else would just make him hot, here) and then sat half-reclined on top of the covers, waiting. The first sign of movement came from the balcony, and when he turned his head he realized night had fallen so suddenly, the blanket of stars gently coating the night sky. It was fun to picture the thousands of planets out there, unexplored, undiscovered. How grand it would be, when they learned the name Bill Cipher. 

“Will you be sleeping for long, this time?”

Ford sat up a bit more when he heard Bill’s voice, shrugging his shoulder into the air. "Oh.....just a few hours. Five, six? It won't be long, I promise." Bill didn't sleep, didn't _need_ it, and he couldn't imagine how much patience it must take on His part to put up with it. But Bill was so patent that way, _always._

“Oh, take your time!” “You always look so _peaceful_ when you sleep; I wouldn’t want to cut that short!” 

Ford flushed cherry red immediately, and turned his head, flopping back down onto the bed with a sigh and nodding. There was a small collection, a tapestry of stars projected onto the ceiling; they'd yet to put that six-fingered-handed constellation up there yet, but they would. That'd show---he wasn't sure, anymore. Someone. Himself.

He got under the covers, rolling over to look out the doors of the balcony one last time. "Goodnight, babe." And then, before he waved the overhead light off; "I love You." That was refreshing. Every time, it was _refreshing._ Ethereal. He spent too long thinking he'd never say it, and now he had _eternities_ to make up for it. He was asleep in moments. 

He was even more oblivious, asleep; if that was even possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading thusfar, everyone!! You know your comments keep me thriving and keep me publishing more, I'd love to hear them!


	5. you put your emptiness to melody, your awful heart to song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter Title from Hozier's To Noise Making (Sing)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOSH, this one took a WHILE! If you're still following this story, thank you for your continued support; It's going to start picking up around here, I swear, so you're in for quite a ride!

Stan was awoken by the morning light in through the shades, and he covered his eyes with his hands groggily, trying to place his surroundings. It took him a few moments to realize where he was, and once he _did,_ he felt no less unsettled.

He supposed finding Ford would be the first step. Well, no. Changing would be the first step, finding Ford the second. He wasn’t about to be parading around his brother’s palace in his pajamas. So he changed (one clean set of clothes, after this one, and he wondered), and _then_ he made his way out into the hallway. He peeked right, and then he peeked left, and that was when he was met face to face with Bill’s face, grinning like an idiot, and he jumped almost a foot into the air.

“So! Stanley Pines!” Bill clapped his hands together, seemingly unfazed by the human’s fear. “We really haven’t gotten much of a chance to _talk_ yet, have we?” “You’re not my biggest fan, I can tell,” Bill said, appearing to find this _very_ funny. “But, see, it’s obvious you have _no_ idea what you’re fucking with, here! None at all!”

Stan stared. “Okay. Uh- I mean, I don’t really know what’s going on, but-“ 

“Whatever _version_ of Stanford Pines you remember is dead!” Bill said, and Stan was shocked at how _cheerful_ he sounded. “Your _visit_ is temporary—very temporary—and while you’re here, I’m going to ask _nicely_ that you stay out of what doesn’t concern you! Of course, this includes Ford’s and my... _arrangement_.” 

“You mean.. your _relationship_?” 

“Sure! Whatever.” Bill waved a hand with, once again, an odd dismissive sense. “Now, I’ve got things to do! I certainly hope there won’t be any _problems_ while you’re here! You’ve gotta be smarter than you look; I’m sure we could be good _friends_!” 

Stan did not agree, but because a lot of what Bill had just said had sounded like _threats_ , he nodded slowly. Don’t say anything, Stan. Not now.

“Wonderful! I hope you enjoy your stay, here!” And then, Bill was gone. Just like that.

**\---------------**

Ford was awakened slightly later, to the sound of Bill, hovering slightly near the ceiling, eating the only thing from human civilization he ever seemed to enjoy; Captain Crunch. He grabbed his glasses off the end-table and watched the room come into focus, then turned on the overheads, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Morning, hun.”

He paused for a minute to try and recall the events of yesterday; Stanley. Stanley was here. He threw the sheets off him and climbed out of bed, snapping himself into fresh clothes and leaning against the bedframe. Bill took another bite. There were about 90 boxes of human Captain Crunch in the pantry at all times, most off-limits to him. He didn’t understand Bill’s love for it, but there were enough things he didn’t understand not to sweat it.

“You’re in a good mood.” He observed. “Where’s....is Stanley still here?” He could check for himself, but he figured Bill would know. He wondered what the hell they’d do to entertain him; they weren’t used to having company for anywhere near this long. But this is _Stanley,_ he reminded himself. That was different.

“Mm-hm.” Bill shrugged. “Probably!” He waved a hand and the bowl disappeared. “I haven’t exactly been checking in on him, but I doubt he’d just leave!”. He appeared, then, on the bed, sitting cross legged. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on one hand. “Sleep well? Have any good _dreams_?” His eyes flashed as he said it.

Ford _hoped_ Stan wouldn't just leave. Not without getting the chance to say goodbye first, like he never got to do....No. He refused to think about that. They were getting along just fine now. Ford got back on the bed, then, sitting on his haunches, his knees brushing against Bill's. "I don't remember." He admitted, tilting his head. "Dreams, I mean. But I'm sure they were good." He shifted, then, to put his legs out in front of him, and thought of Stanley again, briefly. "I suppose we should go check in on him." He sighed, his head falling to rest against Bill's shoulder. "I wish we could just stay here, though." He said with a little laugh. "Forever."

"You keep forgetting that we _can_." Bill shrugged the shoulder that Ford's head wasn't occupying. "Hell, we could stay here for three forevers, if we wanted to! Nobody would have any idea."

“Mmmm.” He hummed, gently drumming his fingers against the back of his palm. “Tempting. But we’ve got the concert today, remember?”

“ _Eugh.”_ Bill groaned, throwing his head back in fake-disgust, and Ford giggled.

“Come on. You know you love it.”

Playing music for other people wasn’t something the two of them did _often,_ but when they did, it was _sort of a big deal._ Only the people Bill deemed noble enough (Sadly; one day they’d find a bigger venue than the Fearamid, and the entire multiverse could come) were granted tickets, which usually meant _all_ of Bill’s friends, plus a couple other members of higher society they were looking to impress. Not that they needed to _impress_ anyone, per say, but it was good for their reputation, at the very least, if they were perceived as classy. 

“I can’t believe you still play that thing.”

That was _not_ the answer Ford was looking to get from his brother when he told him about it, excitedly, that afternoon, scrubbing at the sprucewood with near-fury to try and get a speck of dirt off. “Of course I still play. Bill’s going to play, too, and He’s going to sing. We can get you front row seats, if you want, they’re like the most _coveted_ thing in the multiverse--please, Stanley?

Jazz and Concerto, his brother’s sort of thing, had just never been his _style;_ he’d gone to all his concerts in highschool anyway, because it was Ford, but throwing Bill into the mix put a bad taste in his mouth, to say the least. But when Ford got that look on his face, the little pouty one that apparently he could still muster twelve years later, Stan found it impossible to say no. “Alright, Sixer. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.” Ford smiled softly, finally finding the violin to be in acceptable condition (Stanley hadn’t seen anything wrong with it in the first place) and putting it away. “Concert starts at 4 PM. Sharp. I’d recommend getting there by 3:30, it’s--sort of a madhouse sometimes.” 

3:30 it was. Until then, Stan sat in his room and went through his things, thinking about when he would need fresh clothes again, about the list of people he still owed money to, about where he was going to go next (He couldn’t stay in New Mexico for long). He knew he had to leave this place, sooner or later, and somehow he supposed that Ford wanted it to be sooner, but it hurt him. It hurt him to leave his brother behind-- _and that's the_ _only_ _reason, I swear._

Stan was pent up and fed up with it all by the time 3:00 rolled around, and by 3:15 he was in the concert hall, watching the stage curiously. Ford was off to the side, tuning his instrument like he’d no doubt been doing for the past 2 hours, while Bill barked orders to the still very-much-invisible servants, which seemed typical, really. After all the reverberated bitching he could take, Stan decided he needed a break, and went out into the lobby for some water.

There, he practically barreled into a child. An actual, real, _child._ She looked human, and in human terms, couldn’t have been a day older than ten. She was filthy, dirt and grime on her clothes like she hadn’t had fresh ones in weeks, and she was crying. She was sobbing, actually, holding her arms close to her chest in a wildly protective gesture. Immediately, Stan felt some sense of horrible dread, and a need to help. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” He muttered, helping her off the floor. He hoped he didn’t make her cry by knocking her over, but he was pretty sure she’d been at that state already. “Are you--” It seemed very indicative of a toddler in a grocery store. “Are you lost?”

“Mmhm.” She said, and though she was crying, she spoke with an oddly intellectual tone for her young age. “I’m looking for--”

“Minerva!” 

A shout, then, behind them. Here was another man, slim in build, dressed head to toe in some sort of red robes (which, surprisingly, wasn’t the strangest outfit he’d seen today, but it didn’t look very concert-appropriate.) His left eye was a starting blue against his outfit, peering through a monocle balanced gently on his nose. The right was entirely whited out, a long scar running through it top to bottom.

“Oh, I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you.” The accent was indistinguishably American southern. Okay. _Weird as fuck._

The stranger took the girl away from Stan with nothing more than a glare in his direction, bending down to shake her hand. “The name’s Fiddleford, Fiddleford McGucket. I’m going to be assistin’ you today, alright?”

_Assisting with what?_ Stan couldn’t help but think as Fiddleford ushered the girl out a previously unseen back door by the shoulder. They obviously weren’t here for the concert. That _feeling,_ welled up inside him, strange and remarkable, had only grown stronger. It told him that something very, very bad was about to happen.

Stan checked his watch. 3:45. Biting his lip, he listened into the main room, where Ford’s incessant tuning was still audible--it paused, briefly, as he giggled again.

_I have time._

Out the back door Stan followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you're still following my crazy fic, thank you so very much for your continued support. I'd really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. Stay well in this crazy epidemic! <3.


	6. i hope that our few remaining friends give up on trying to save us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Title from The Mountain Goats' No Children]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. IT'S HERE. 
> 
> First off; a huge apology. I made you guys wait 3 and a half months for chapter 6 of a fic I was supposed to be publishing about weekly. Oops. There usually comes a point in my writing where I completely lose steam, and this was that destined point, but I'm really proud of myself for buckling through and continuing to write. I hope that I've gotten over a hump and we can get back to a steady pace now, and thank you so much, everyone, for your patience.
> 
> Second, a couple of "housekeeping" things I've done with this fic;
> 
> \--I brought the rating of the fic down to T from M, and removed the "Graphic depictions of violence" tag. There will be violence later on in this fic, but there won't be any /explicit/ violence, and I've since poked through the Gravity Falls tag and found many, many more graphic fics who didn't breach into territory of that tag, so I don't believe it's something this fic needs. 
> 
> \--You may notice that this chapter has a TITLE (a song lyric title!) That's because ALL the chapters now have titles, and will continue to. The credit for the songs will be in the chapter summary, because I don't like writing those. 
> 
> And that's about it. Though I will tell you, I officially have the rest of this storyboarded out. I'm expecting about 4 more chapters from this; three of them LONG chapters, the fourth relatively short. From that point, I'll either leave the ending as it is--relatively open ended, POSSIBLE sequel territory (no promises), or I'll write a cliche "____ years later" type epilogue. Either way, I'm elated to finally have my first multi-chapter work completed. Thank you so much for sticking with me!

When Stan opened the back door, he did a double take.

Fiddleford and Minerva were long gone, turning the corner of an incredibly dingy hallway; loose nails and wire on the walls, surroundings made of rotting wood, creaky floorboards. This did  _ not  _ look like a room Ford and Bill would allow in their palace, under any circumstances. Just to make sure they hadn’t... _ teleported,  _ or anything, Stan turned around and opened the door he’d come through, but no. There was the lobby of the parlor, still very much intact and swarming with a plethora of demonic horrors. 

Closing the door as quietly as possible and being sure to walk even quieter, Stan turned the corner, pressing his ear to the wood of another door. He didn’t know why he was doing this; following these people here, trespassing like this. All he knew was that this was  _ strange;  _ the whole  _ thing  _ was strange. And it made him feel uneasy, and his curiosity was once again demanding he found answers.

“It’s a seamless process, really.” Fiddleford was saying from behind the wood of the door. “The for—“ 

There was a pause, and it filled Stan with dread. “Hold on, hun.”

He tried to step back, maybe ready to make a  _ run  _ for it, but it was too late. Fiddleford flung the door open and glared at him with his one working eye; and then, suddenly, his eye went wide and he pulled a gun from his robes, pointing it dead at his forehead, hands shaking. “Come no closer!” He shouted, though Stan could detect a tremble in his voice. “Please—“ He added, tilting his head—“Not in front of the  _ child.” _

“What?” Stan laughed, incredulous. The child—Minerva—had stepped forward, and was now tugging on Fiddleford’s sleeve. It reminded him of what Ford always did, and that made him feel a bit of regret for running off like this.

“You took my mommy and daddy away.” Minerva sniffed. “Why did you take everyone away, Mr. Cipher?”

“Mr.—“ This one really did make him laugh, really truly, at least until Fiddleford tightened his grip on the gun still pointed at his forehead. Then, he gulped, and tried to sort his thoughts, until something suddenly occurred to him.

“...You think I’m Stanford.” Oh.  _ Oh,  _ no. Mr.  _ Cipher?  _ Is that was he was calling himself these days? “No, I’m—I’m his brother, I’m Stanley.”

Fiddleford laughed, grating and harsh, and it ticked Stan off just enough, but he was hardly in a position to argue with the man pointing a gun at his face. “Nice try.” He snorted. “Stanford doesn’t have a  _ twin.  _ Would’ve told me, if he did.”

Stan blinked, twice. “You-- _ know  _ him?”

“Once. Not anymore. He would’ve mentioned a twin-- _ You  _ would’ve mentioned a twin, you little--”

Fiddleford’s eyes drifted to his hands, and he followed them. He watched the robed man’s mouth count up,  _ one, two, three, four, five-- _ and then stop suddenly, and he looked between his own hands and Fiddleford’s eyes a number of times, like some shitty slapstick comedy, before very,  _ very  _ slowly, Fiddleford lowered the gun.

“You’ve probably got some--” He waved it in the air. “ _ He’s  _ probably got some magic bullshit, get rid of the extra finger, the good ol’ twin excuse, but for now--” He looked over his shoulder and beckoned Stan into the room. “For now, ‘gainst my better judgement entirely, I’m gonna believe you.” He patted the seat next to him, face turned up in a mixture between confusion and stubborn-ness, and then after a moment, stood up and opened another door in the wall. Stan did a double take, for he was almost positive that was not a door that had been there a moment ago.

_ “Stay there.”  _ Fiddleford threatened, pointing the gun square between his eyebrows, and he held his hands up in surrender. “This is a strictly confidential process.” He wove his fingers through Minerva’s, then, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. “I’m serious. Don’t go runnin’ off, you. This shouldn’t take longer than a minute.”

They were gone, then, and Stan sat in utter confusion until they came back. Sure, he tried poking around the room a bit (his curiosity wasn’t exactly something a few threats could kill), but all he found were bits of wires on the wall, mold in the floorboards, and the rickety table with four seats, three of which had just been occupied. Then, Stan tapped his toe against the floor, and then he checked his watch. 3:53.  _ Shit,  _ he couldn’t help but think, and he would’ve left then and there, threats be damned (because seriously, his twin brother ruled the multiverse), if the door hadn’t been flung open once more, Fiddleford and the girl returning.

“Alright.” He said, briskly, pointing to the chair next to him. Once Stanley sat, he was met with horror to another gun to the forehead--a different one than before, all clear and rods and tubes and weird lights, and maybe that should’ve made Stan feel better but it only made him feel a  _ hell  _ of a lot worse. “Your turn.”

“Wait, waitwaitwait.” Stan had been in enough life or death situations not to be in  _ complete  _ crisis mode, but gun-to-the-forehead was still not the best situation to be in, type of gun regardless. “It--” He laughed. If anything, he had his words; and he had one hell of a trump card. “I mean, I’m not any multiverse king, but I’m still Stanford’s brother, if I turned up dead, I’m sure he’d come looking--”

“Oh,  _ relax.”  _ Fiddleford huffed. “I’m not gonna  _ kill _ you. Not even gonna hurt, frankly.” He was punching something into the gun as he said this, and Stan curled his knuckles tight against the surface of the wood. He should’ve brought a weapon. “You’re just gonna forget you ever saw me, that’s all.”

“Hold on!” At this point, Stan resorted to shouting-shock, throwing his hands out again, and surprisingly, it worked, Fiddleford lowering the gun for half a moment. “Please.” He said, and it was a bit of a low point, but not one he was going to dwell on. “I--I don’t know where I am. I’m so far from home, and Stanford isn’t himself, and I have so many  _ questions,  _ I just--I don’t know what’s going on.”

Fiddleford shook his head, very aimlessly, and then sunk into the seat across from him, the girl scooching a little closer, as if for protection. “Stanford and I built the portal together.” He mumbled, eventually, staring at his knuckles, and Stan’s eyes widened.

“ _ You?  _ The--the one in--”

“In his basement. Figured that was how you got here.” He leaned back a little, the legs of the chair rising off the ground. “Yeah, spent about three years workin’ on that thing. Stanford receivin’ communication from Bill--you know, Bill Cipher--the whole time. He never told me a damn thing, I had no idea until--” His eyebrows screwed up, and he shook his head. “Somethin’ went wrong. The details are fuzzy, but I’ve been here ever since. I watched them take over. Nothin’s been the same.”

“And they took over--nine months ago?”

“About that, yeah.”

Stan shook his head, sighing. “Ford wasn’t…he wasn’t  _ like this  _ before, was he?”

“It’s not like I talk to him anymore,” Fiddleford responded with a pointed glare, “But from what I gather from the press…No. Not at all. Bill screwed with him somethin’ awful. I wish I knew more, but--I don’t.”

“So there’s...nothing we can do, huh?”

“They’ve been terrorizing the multiverse for almost a year. ‘Fraid not.”

The word  _ terrorizing  _ put him on edge, so unbelievably so that he could barely fathom it, so unbelievably so that he didn’t ask for any further clarification, but he swore he would find more out later. He checked his watch one more time, and practically jumped out of his seat.

“Shit! Ford’s got some--some concert, thing, it just started, I’d better get back there.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard, the violin crap?” When Stan nodded in response, Fiddleford sighed, rooting through his bag until he found what Stan believed to be some sort of piece for his instrument. “Used to play with him. Well, I played fiddle, but. We traded bridges, and--I kept his for too long. I kept meanin’ to return it, but obviously that’s not gonna happen. I thought maybe--you could? Tell him I’m alive, if it means anything at all to him.”

“Yeah, sure. Um--is there--if I need your help again, do you think--” 

Fiddleford slipped something else into his hand, then; a calling card, with the same eye symbol on Fiddleford’s robes on it. “Call this number and ask for me directly. If anyone questions you, say you’re under my orders and it’s urgent, not an appointment.” He nodded once, patting Stan’s hand twice. It reminded him of a gesture he used to do to Ford, and there was some odd sort of solace in that. 

“Good luck now, Stanley. Stay safe out there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I really appreciate any and all comments you might have to offer. I love reading them; they really inspire me to keep writing. Thanks in advance!


	7. i'm headed straight for the castle, they've got this kingdom locked up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and there's an old man sitting on the throne saying i should probably keep my pretty mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a strange, disjointed chapter this time around. I struggled a lot with writing it, but I think it contains a few really vital conversations, and it's a good setup for the /next/ chapter, which has absolutely been MY favorite to plan and write, and I have a feeling may be the favorite of some of you guys too. Still planning to finish this up at chapter 10, though I'll let you guys know if that changed. You may notice parts of this come from my earlier Stanuary draft of this. They've been modified a bit, of course!
> 
> That's about all for now, please do heed the updated tags. Ch. title and summary lyric from Halsey's Castle.

“Thanks for coming, Stanley.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah--no problem.”

Yes, Stan had been a little distracted. There had been about 60 billion racing thoughts bouncing around his skull during the whole duration of the concert; it was  _ nice,  _ he supposed, but that kind of music had never really been his sort of thing, and besides, there was too much to think about. Stanford  _ Cipher,  _ potentially terrorizing the universe, and his old friend, some kind of multiversal vagabond, wiping peoples’ memories. He could barely wrap his head around it, and he didn’t know what to bring up first, so he just sort of ended up spitting out:

“Stanford  _ Cipher?”  _

“Hm? Oh--yes.” Ford laughs like it’s the most obvious news on the planet, like it doesn’t cut him deep like a knife, and then raises an eyebrow in skepticism. “Wherever did you hear that?”

“It’s, uh--” And thankfully, Stan had thought this one through. He pulled out the program from their little concert, tapping it twice against the flat of his hand. “Right here. Stanford Cipher. You’re--since when are you going by that?” His eyes narrowed, and it sort of was like thinking it through the first time all over again, when he said this, even though it had been looping over and over again in his mind for the past 3 hours. “You’re not--you didn’t get…. _ married,  _ did--”

“Married!” Ford snorted. “No, heavens no. Maybe one day, but that’s so, mmm... _ human,  _ now isn’t it?”

Ford wanted to  _ shake him  _ in frustration. _ You are human, Sixer!  _ He wanted to shout.  _ Fucking act like it!  _ Maybe Ford  _ was  _ immortal, but either way, hearing him talk like he was...it scared him, if he was telling the full truth. 

“Listen, Ford.” He mumbled, dropping his voice to little more than a scant whisper. Ford apparently got the cue, leaning in. “I’ve got something to tell you--something to  _ show  _ you.” He patted his pocket twice. “I don’t think it’s something your  _ boyfriend  _ would like very much, though, so if we could--you know, be  _ alone...? _ ” 

Ford looked visibly upset at the idea of being shown something Bill wouldn’t like, but he nodded, reluctantly. “I do have  _ work  _ to do, Stanley. Running the multiverse isn’t all fun and games. If you’d be fine with joining me, we could discuss whatever it is you have to tell me later.”

“Sure, okay.” Stan said, raising a shoulder in the air. Discussing the running of affairs of the  _ entire world  _ with your brother. How bad could it be?

Very, very,  _ very  _ bad, apparently. 

“Now, you must know, Stanley, Bill and I don’t like to interfere when there isn’t a need for it.” 

Currently, his brother was standing, sprawled out over a collection of diagrams and documents and blueprints, things he could barely make sense of, but seemed to be stressing Ford out nonetheless. “It’s less work for us. Less hassle. There’s a lot on our plates, so we don’t like to directly butt in where there isn’t trouble.”

“And...if there’s trouble?”

“Well,” Ford sighed, tapping one of the blueprints twice with the gold pen he was holding. “Then we interfere.”

Stan didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like the way Ford had sounded distressed mumbling under his breath, the rapid pace he wrote all over the assortment of papers in front of him in, the  _ things  _ he wrote on them; they unnerved him. The way Ford was acting dodgy and imprecise worried him. Sure, Bill was....an issue, but he thought he knew who Ford was, at the very least. Now, he was starting to doubt it more and more. 

“ _ Interfere _ meaning....?”

Ford practically slammed one of his hands on the desk, blowing some of his gold-tipped bangs out of his eyes. “Depends on how big the trouble is.”

Stan groaned softly, pressing a hand to his temple and shaking his head. More than just morally annoying, this was starting to make his brain hurt. “Ford, you’re being vague.” He stated, even though he knew that his brother knew that. “Examples,  _ please.” _

“Well, lately, we’ve gotten news of a group of spies trying to infiltrate dimension three-point-oh. If it was only one person finding out  _ too much,  _ I’d just dispose of them. I could erase their existence entirely, if they were  _ really _ meddling, but that  _ does _ get tedious—oh, but a group is--”

Stan didn't even want to let him get that far. “Dispose of, meaning…”

“Oh, mercy killing, usually. Manhunting is entertaining and all, but it’s a lot of work. And I’m too  _ nice  _ for pointless torture, really.”

“You  _ kill  _ people for...finding out too much information?” Stan didn’t even know what the definition of “too much information” was. He didn’t know if he qualified.

“Stanley.” Ford came closer, putting a hand on his shoulder, and Stan flinched, like he was worried that Ford could slip up and erase him from existence by mistake.

(It would be a mistake.)

Ford tutted, seemingly rolling his eyes at the way Stan flinched, which he found  _ absurdly  _ rude. “You’re not fit to rule, when it comes down to the  _ big  _ decisions. For instance, the overpopulation in the moonshine dimension? Getting  _ wildly  _ out of hand, Stanley—”

“What are you doing about it?”

“Well, lately, systemic genocide, I’ve tried other altern—“

Stan held his hands up. He couldn’t believe his own ears. He felt a bit like he was going to be sick, actually. Somewhere in the back of his ears, he heard Ford mutter  _ so soft-hearted,  _ but there was a pounding in his head and a swirling in his gut, and he needs it all to go somewhere, so he shouts.

“So. When you say— _ rule.  _ You mean  _ orchestrate “systemic genocide?”  _ He made air quotes, because he had to, because there was no way such a thing a  _ systemic genocide  _ existed, and there was no way his  _ brother  _ was leading it. His brother,  _ his  _ Stanford Pines, who cried when they had to dissect a frog in biology. He started into the eyes--the golden eyes--of Stanford Pines, and he realized those weren’t the eyes he thought he knew, and he felt something inside him break.

“Never mind.” Stan mumbled, turning his head before the welling inside his eyes overtook him. “You’re right. I’m not fit for deciding who gets to be genocided or not. I should just go home.”

“Stanley.” Ford sounded exasperated with him. Stan wasn’t surprised. That was always where they ended up, right? “Didn’t you have--something to show me?”

“No. Forget it.” There was  _ no way  _ Stan was telling Ford about Fiddleford. He knew what would come from it; the only chance he had to get Ford back would no doubt be  _ disposed of, _ as his brother liked to put it so eloquently. “I’m not  _ leaving,  _ okay? I’m just going for a walk.”

He couldn’t go home without Ford.

  
  


**\----------------------------------------------------------------------------**

  
  


“I wish we could just stay here. Forever.”

Ruling the multiverse was a messy thing. So messy, in fact, that sometimes the only way to survive was to block it out. Ford knew this a little too well after nine months. So well, in fact, that having Stanley here to remind him of it had been jarring and a little frightening. So he’d returned to his room after their little botched conversation and slept for a few hours, relieved to see Bill there when he’d woken up. 

An irritated conversation about how  _ hard  _ everything was had ended in this, and oh, how true it was. Life was hard, harder than he sometimes wanted to face, and he often wished he could blot out everything that was bad and stay here, in this bedroom, with his Bill Cipher, forever and ever.

"You keep forgetting that we  _ can _ ." Bill shrugged the shoulder that Ford's head wasn't occupying. "Hell, we could stay here for three forevers, if we wanted to! Nobody would have any idea." He felt Bill sling an arm around his shoulder and moseyed a bit closer, listened attentively to the (slightly over-dramatic) sigh passing between His lips. "Do you ever get  _ bored _ of this?" Bill asked suddenly. "Miss the early days?"

The 'early days,' of course, had involved the active conquest of much of this dimension. It had been exciting. Exhilarating, and scary, but yes, Ford had to admit that as messy as it was, as violent and unsettling, it had been....exciting. That was exactly how he would put it.

Ford didn’t want to say that out loud, though, especially not after the afternoon he had. He was undecided about the manner, he officially decided, and went with his trepidation side. "No." He shook his head. The days, the first days, had been  _ chaos,  _ he forcefully reminded himself _. _ Carnage, destruction, violence, death,  _ hard work. _ They had made things better, they had done it to get  _ here. _ Now they were here, now they were in paradise. He could never be bored of this. "....Why?" He said, very softly. "Do you?” Because he knew, soon, that they would have to go out and do it again. He got that. There was so much more to liberate, and with their steadily growing influence, they couldn't stay stagnant. But....three forevers in this moment couldn't hurt.

“It’s not in my  _ nature _ to sit around and play the piano all day,” Bill said. “I have to shake things up  _ sometimes _ , or I go insane!” 

And as silly as this sounded, Ford understood. He knew Bill’s nature, and he wasn’t surprised by the expression, even though he would’ve been unsettled had it come from anyone else. "I know." He said softly, fidgeting with his hands. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to keep You.... _ trapped, _ here. I just.....I love it when You're here." 

“My old friends, you know the ones,” Bill responded indirectly, gesturing dismissively with the hand not being held, “and I come from a dimension of pure  _ chaos _ ! It’s only natural we have to  _ be _ chaotic, sometimes! They throw these  _ massive _ parties, almost every night, really, and I go sometimes.” There was a pause.

“They get wild, but I think you’d enjoy them!” Bill hummed. “If you ever  _ do _ get bored of this, that is!” He was quiet after that, just briefly.“I  _ would _ like to have you there!” He brushed a strand of hair out of Ford’s face with the arm looped around his shoulders. 

Bill was so sweet, Ford could barely take it. His  _ next _ words, though, perked him right up, and he turned to look at Him in astonishment. "No--really? You want me to come to one of Your  _ parties? _ " He knew about these events, but never thought they were his scene--frankly, never thought he'd be wanted. So that made him giggle again, real and genuine, blushing even redder than the words made him at Bill's little gesture. "That's--well, alright. Frankly, I'd love to come, if it's alright." He never thought he'd be so  _ excited _ about this prospect, but....he was. Really excited, actually.

“Great! It’s a  _ date _ , then! I know it’s not really your  _ thing,  _ but I think you’ll have  _ fun!” _

Ford's smile could've lit up half the planet, then. "It's a  _ date _ ." He giggled back, squeezing Bill's hand with the one currently in it. He was positive it was going to be an  _ amazing _ night. As long as Bill was there, after all, what could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for keeping up so far! y'all know I love comments!


	8. if you love somebody better tell them while they're here, cause they just might run away from you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [title from imagine dragons' on top of the world.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ever leave people waiting for a chapter for so long, that when you post it its TEN KAY FUCKING WORDS? you heard me. 10k. one chapter.
> 
> the reason for this?? I tried something new with POVs this time! The reason for THAT? as you guys know, this started as an rp, and this scene was SUPER hard to transition to fic. There were some lovely back-forth interactions that would've been lost, and i genuinely COULD NOT pick a POV. Stan's wouldn't have been complete enough, but neither would have Ford's.
> 
> So, to add to the rampant intensity of the party, you're getting very quick POV changes, separated by -- lines breaks. Thus, it reads a bit like a roleplay, but also not really, because I've edited a LOT of the POV-centric stuff to increase internal narration and make it read more like a fic; just one with a wildly ping-ponging narrative.
> 
> Oh, and just for increased flavor, you get a new POV this chapter! Woohoo!
> 
> [CW's for this chapter: alcohol, extreme intoxication, alluded non-consensual drugging/date r*pe elements (meaning, drugging drinks; no sexual or violent content whatsoever, and its a VERY BRIEF allusion). very alive bill cipher: do not eat!!! he's an ass!

Everything, that’s what, but it would be far too long before Ford knew that.

To say Ford had never been more excited in his  _ life _ for this party might have been an overstatement--the portal was pretty exciting, passing through was pretty exciting, seeing Bill and the multiverse. But this was a different sort of excitement, and it bubbled and churned in him all the way in. He was practically hanging off Stan three feet through the door, already half-drunk just on anticipation. Quickly, he scanned the room, searching for his boyfriend in question; and there He was, leaning against the bar, so Ford was off, leaning over it himself with a little chuckle. "Hey babe!" He cooed over the music, looking around. It sure was a lot to take in through his wide-blown eyes; a lot of grandeur, a lot of splendor.. Drinking was not his  _ intention _ right now, but he wouldn't put up much of a fight against it, if it was Bill's. "Is everything going alright?"

**\--** **  
** **  
** Stan had gotten up, at some point, and figuring he had nothing better to do, had begun to wander. He’d figured he’d probably get lost, but didn’t really care. Ford had said all he had to do was think about where he wanted to go, right? Easy. He could just pop back into the ocean room whenever he wanted. This place  _ was _ remarkable, as intimidating as it was. It really did remind Stan of the kinds of fantasy, sci-fi things Ford was into as a kid. Made sense. After a while, Ford had come to join him and lead him around the grounds, and once they were sitting by the lake, once Stan felt like finally last afternoon was behind them, that things were  _ okay  _ again, Ford had mentioned it; 

The party.

Well, if anything, it made Ford’s  _ outfit  _ make sense. He had gotten to the  _ stop questioning things  _ point of being here, but the 5 pounds of mousse in his hair and stuffy blazer had been confusing, at the very least. Stan didn’t know what to change into, because he had nothing, and he refused to ask Ford to borrow something; he wasn’t wearing anything gold and glittery, which was apparently all Ford owned, these days. So he came in the nicest pair of jeans he brought and a flannel buttoned like a dress-shirt. Whatever.

The party was--a little scary, honestly, a little intimidating.  _ Monsters  _ of all shapes and sizes chatted it up with people who looked otherwise human, and Stan didn’t want to leave Ford’s side for even a moment--to protect his brother, of course, and that thought was prevalent as ever as they slid up to the bar, but--maybe to protect himself just a little, too.

**\--**

Of course, Bill’s plans ended up moving the entire party, itself. What better place than the  _ Fearamid _ : the beginning of it all. Nothing had been hosted there since the takeover, and it wasn’t hard to convince everyone to change the location. 

He was doing this for the illusion of safety, of being in control. Ford should believe that he was safe, and being in a familiar area would help with that. He made sure both Ford  _ and _ Stan (who would  _ have _ to be there; it was the one downside), were out when the entire thing started. He’d encouraged that Ford take his brother somewhere, show him some of the local sights.

So, when they returned, the party was in full swing. The place was filled to the brim with freaks of all sorts. Bill occupied himself by manning the (obviously  _ open _ ) bar, leaving himself in full view of the door. He wanted to make sure he was there when Ford came back. He was  _ excited _ . He  _ missed _ the old days of actively, constantly fucking with Stanford’s head. It had felt easier when Ford was afraid of him, but it’d be far more interesting, now that Ford  _ loved _ him. 

“Hey babe!” He could barely hear Ford over the music, pounding his skull in a completely delightful way. “Is everything going alright?”

  
  


**\--**

“ _ Beautifully _ !” Bill replied, and Ford practically melted at the tone of his voice, curling his hand under His immediately as it was placed. “Stanley,” he greeted a moment later, more coldly, but Ford could hardly blame him for that. “What’s your poison, kid?”

Stan eyed Bill for a moment or two. To Ford it felt like five years, and he wanted to shove his brother away into some corner so he could enjoy his night, but  _ finally,  _ Stan mumbled something about drinking “whatever.” Bill slid him his drink, and Ford felt uneasy for just a moment, but his boyfriend’s attention was soon back on him.

“And  _ you _ ?” Bill turned back to Ford. Ford noticed, right away, that Bill was looking straight into his eyes, but instead of feeling awkward and stifled and looking away as with anyone else, Ford felt his heart turn to jelly. This was strange, but he loved it. “What’re you drinking _ , love _ ?” 

He couldn't help but wonder, aimlessly, if Bill was already a bit inebriated, if that was impacting the way He was acting; so gentle, so loving, and Ford wanted to bottle it up and keep it forever. 

Whatever Bill was having, he wanted at it. 

"Oh." It was all he could manage at first, though he mentally kicked himself for it, going red as a tomato.  _ Love _ was a new one, actually, and it made his heart do backflips. "I don't know." He giggled, pulling himself up onto a barstool and leaning his elbows on the bar. He raised his eyebrows, flipping his hand over and taking Bill's in his own before cooing back. "Surprise me."

\--

Stan eyed Bill suspiciously for a moment or two. He didn’t like this, and he didn’t like this party. “Whatever.” He mumbled in response to Bill’s drink question. He had no idea of the contents of whatever he was handed, and because of that, he hardly felt like drinking it, but he didn’t suppose he had much of a choice. This was his brother’s  _ big party,  _ and he wanted to be  _ agreeable,  _ or whatever the fuck. It seemed cheap, anyway. 

“And  _ you?”  _

Now those words--they set Stan on  _ edge.  _ Perhaps the notion that any semblance of love in his brother’s boyfriend’s voice was enough to put him on edge should’ve been a major red flag, but he was far past that point already. Observations were over and done with, it was now time to protect Ford’s ass. He didn’t trust Bill in the slightest, and while he’d  _ normally _ just leave, he didn’t want his brother alone down here, with these  _ things _ . Stan would stay, until he knew Ford was upstairs and asleep, safe.  _ Even if it took all night _ , he thought tiredly.

His brother, apparently, didn’t know the first thing about open bars, and the trust he put in Bill was what Stan was beginning to pin down as fatal. He eyed the empty glass in Bill’s hand warily, but when he heard what Ford actually  _ responded,  _ he felt his gut absolutely churn.

Bad choice.

**\--**

Bad choice,  _ indeed.  _

  
  


There wasn’t law enforcement, anymore. There was nothing stopping them from getting  _ anything _ they wanted, across thousands of dimensions. So, Bill did.

It was a funny little drink. Sweet, not too strong-tasting, but it wasn’t meant for human consumption at  _ all _ . It packed a serious punch and it wouldn’t be long at all before Ford was so out of it he wouldn’t remember the entire  _ day _ , later. All the time, he’d probably believe he was drinking something gentle, poor thing.

He snapped his fingers and it appeared, in a martini glass, in front of Ford. “Only the best!” And really, it  _ was _ . This was the good stuff. “ _ En _ joy!” Bill hadn’t started drinking, yet. He would, when things really got going, but he wanted to make sure things got off to a good start, first. 

**\--**

Ford's  _ instinct _ was to  _ throw back, _ as they used to say in highschool, but he didn't. All things in moderation; he just sipped at it instead. "Thanks." 

And  _ Woah, _ that was a rush. A bubbling, churning,  _ exhilarating  _ feeling, even if it was just his own nerves. He giggled on the way up, nervous, frenetic, enthused. "You're missing out." He said to Stan, raising an eyebrow. 

Now, Ford didn't know much about alcohol, but he  _ did _ know enough to know that if you were feeling effects after  _ one _ sip of something, you probably shouldn't be drinking any more of it. He knew this, and yet he took another one anyway before setting it down, fluttering his lashes across the bar at Bill. "It's good." And then he leaned back, eyeing the party before looking back over his shoulder. "It's all good, really."

\--

“Yeah, sure,” Stan mumbled, frowning. He didn’t recognize the drink in that glass. “Hey, what is that?” He aimed the question at Bill, nodding at the glass. Whatever it was, it appeared to get Ford  _ much  _ too drunk  _ much  _ too fast. The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t like it. And he could tell Ford had a desire to drink it even faster--he could just  _ tell,  _ and he wanted to pull Ford aside and just  _ shake  _ him, but he restrained, for now.

“You wouldn’t know it,” Bill said, in a way that Stan couldn’t find anything but horrifically rude. “Not from your dimension!” This was a way to detract; Stan knew it. An unknown drink was bad enough; an unknown drink from another  _ dimension  _ sounded like hell to pay. 

Bill tapped his fingers against the countertop, then straightened up. “I’ll be back! Things to do, people to talk to! Finish that, and when I get back we can... dance, or something!” Stan groaned softly when Bill said  _ that,  _ watching the way Ford’s face absolutely lit up. Then, thankfully, he was gone, and the twins were more or less alone, and it wasn’t long at  _ all  _ (Stan could barely take it) before Stan leaned towards Ford. “Hey— do you really think that’s okay to drink? I mean- fuck, he didn’t even say what it  _ was _ .”

\--

Bill made the rounds. Normally, it would be him being a host: thanking guests for coming, the usual host  _ questions _ , blah, blah, blah. Now, though, it was alerting others that it wouldn’t be long before the brief censorship was lifted. Soon, it could be  _ just _ like all the other parties, but  _ better _ . 

He was also giving Ford time to down the rest of the drink. He knew—or  _ expected _ , at least—that he’d want to take it slow. Any sane person would, drinking _ tha _ t for the first time. 

So, he returned several minutes later, this time with a drink of his own in hand. He sidled up to Ford and slipped an arm around his shoulders. “ _ Sixer _ ,” he greeted. “Stanley, do you mind if I borrow your brother for a while?” It wasn’t a question. He wanted Stan to be very sure of that; that it was going to happen, anyway, regardless of his “permission”. And Bill could barely hide a  _ massive  _ grin when Stanley simply looked away.

Perfect.

\--

Stan’s question offput Ford, just a bit--he’d admit it. “What?” He said, looking over suddenly. He’d watched Bill’s figure until it had disappeared into the distance, and briefly, his mind wandered;  _ dancing.  _ Dancing with  _ Bill.  _ Oh,  _ what  _ an idea.

"Oh--yes, I'm sure.” Ford half-huffed, realizing Stan was referring to his drink. He understood Stan’s  _ concern,  _ but it wasn’t needed, really. “Bill wouldn't give me something I couldn't handle." To make his point he drank some more of it--it felt good, going down, every time. Bill really knew how to work His magic. "He takes care of me, Stanley. I promise." Bill had shown Himself to be  _ more _ than capable of that.

The time Ford had gotten sick off his ass after two shots in highschool--ruining Stan's perhaps  _ only  _ _ ever _ chance at being the kid at the popular kid's party--wasn't forgotten about, not entirely. But he trusted himself with Bill, tonight. "It'll be fun! I promise that too."

By the time Bill came back, he felt...nice. Good. Gently fuzzy all over. The world swayed ever so slightly. Fun. A giggle escaped his lips when he heard the nickname and he stood, placing a hand out on the counter to steady himself. Oops. 

"Are we going to dance?" By this point, Ford was  _ enthused _ at the idea. Considering he'd just been a little unsteady standing up, it might not have been a great one, but he leaned into the arm around his shoulders anyway. He took that moment to tilt back his glass, handing the empty one to Bill. That wasn't a  _ direct _ request for anything.

But normally when Ford was  _ done _ with his dishes, he just waved them away.

\--   
  
Stan wasn’t buying it. None of it. Not the safety of the drink, not the safety of Bill, and especially not the safety of his brother. Not tonight. Stanford ‘Known Lightweight’ Pines wasn’t going to be able to handle some freaky other-dimension drink. No chance. He sighed. “Okay. Whatever you say, but— you  _ know _ you don’t have to keep going, if you end up not wanting to?”

Ford just waved him off as he slipped away; Bill had the audacity to ask him for  _ permission,  _ first, but he couldn’t help just feeling defeated. He shrugged and looked away, waiting until Ford was gone before placing his chin in his hand. It was going to be a long,  _ long  _ night.

**\--**

“ _ Ab _ solutely!” Bill waved his own glass away in favor of taking Ford’s, and began to lead him  _ away _ from the bar,  _ away _ from Stanley’s watchful eye. That was important. The farther he could get Ford away from his  _ brother,  _ the more secure this night was going to be.

There was music coming from  _ nowhere _ and  _ everywhere _ all at the same time, and there was already a crowd in a certain area of the gigantic room. A designated dance floor of sorts. The party was heating up, Bill could tell, exactly how he liked it. And eyes turned when he walked by; ruler of the multiverse, of course, but this was his  _ party.  _ This was his  _ element.  _ As Bill pulled Ford along, the glass he was holding refilled itself, and he casually handed it back, like it was nothing important, when really, it was  _ everything _ . 

There was no rhyme or reason to dancing, when one was at a party like this. In fact, the point was to be chaotic, to be insane and  _ not normal _ by societal standards (this was a Bill Cipher party, after all). Still, though, Bill waved his hand toward the piano, and the music slowed down. Better. Better for Ford, at least, who he led along with one hand. Slowly, _ slowly _ , he reminded himself. These things needed to be slowly built  up.

\--

"Thanks." Ford said with a little chuckle once Bill handed his glass back. He wasn't  _ quite _ throwing back, but this time it was a little closer. He was high on the  _ experience, _ on being here with Bill, on the thrill of it all. What was a little drinking to help that along? Nothing.

Ford would dance  _ how _ ever,  _ where _ ver,  _ what _ ever, as long as he was dancing with Bill, and that much was made obvious by the way he smiled as they went along. He could tell there were eyes on him, but he didn't mind much--it was because they were the hosts, really. Those sorts of things were to be expected, when you were  _ them. _

It was all a bit prideful, and as the minutes ticked by he emptied that glass, then he emptied another one. He wasn't what he would call  _ off his ass _ \--not yet--but maybe he was what someone else would call it, someone less knowing of the ways of Bill Cipher, his arms linked around Bill's neck, his head against his chest. "I love You." He giggled over the music. It was true, true,  _ true. _ Now more than ever.

\--

At some point, as drink after drink was downed (Bill was sure Ford had had too much by the third; this wasn’t a drink meant to be slammed back again and again like this), Bill decided that they’d waited long enough. It’d be perfectly alright to start pushing boundaries. 

“What,” Bill started as Ford stumbled once, several minutes in, “don’t tell me you’ve got extra  _ toes _ , too! Definitely  _ dancing _ like a freak!” That one got some laughs, thankfully, from whoever there was around them who could hear. A few similar comments followed, slowly growing more frequent. He liked calling Ford a freak. He knew it was just the sort of thing that pushed his buttons when he was sober, which made it all the more  _ fun _ . He littered in nicknames as he went, careful to balance out the good and the bad.

He kept one arm around Ford when he got his arms around Bill’s neck, pretty much just to keep him on his feet. The other, free hand was used to knock back a few drinks of his own. Old favorites, but stronger than he usually had. At this point, he was overall ignoring Ford and the things he was saying. He responded with a simple, “Hm-mm” when Ford told him he  _ loved  _ him; he hardly thought he’d mind.

Then, with an almost too-hard squeeze to Ford’s shoulder, “I didn’t expect you to be such a  _ lightweight _ ,  _ Fordsie _ , the party’s barely begun!” His tone was still light, but there was an edge to it. Something cruel and mocking, almost. 

  
  


\--

"What?" Ford giggled with a bit of a laugh, nudging into Bill's side playfully. The insults came out of love, Ford knew that. "No, there's only ten of those." He laughed. He laughed, because it was  _ funny, _ really. Bill was so funny. "Unfortunately."

"Do you think I should stop?" He shouted when Bill mentioned the drinking, but the idea didn’t exactly sit right with him. He could handle it, which he decided to prove by raising an eyebrow and  _ really  _ “slamming back”. He was definitely having a hard time staying up, by now, but Bill kept him steady, literally and in every other way too.

"Barely begun?" He sounded  _ enthused _ at this idea. "I feel like we've been dancing for  _ hours, _ Bill, can we do something else?" He pouted, just a bit, trying to see straight above the spots in his vision, gripping his arms around Bill’s neck a little harder. 

\--

“We’ll sit down for a while,” Bill said. Not a suggestion, or a question. “Come on.”

He half-carried Ford back, away from the dancing and the main bit of the party, regretfully, so regretfully away from the  _ fun,  _ and managed to get him sitting upright in one of the chairs. By the time they made it, Stan was back in the seat he’d been in, before, and absolutely  _ glaring _ at Bill. Bill gave him a look—unamused—and then found his way into the seat next to Ford’s. He waved his hand again and his drink, refilled, reappeared in front of him. It was strong, and it burned his throat. He liked it.

Bill made a point of looking bored for a few minutes before leaning towards Ford. “I’m going to go for a while! Uh.. drink  _ water _ , or whatever it is you do to get your head straight.” Then, without giving Ford  _ any _ chance to respond, he was gone again. 

Fuck this.

\--

Fuck this.  _ Fuck  _ this.

Stan, who had followed them out to continue keeping an eye on his brother, had overheard every comment but this one so far, and he was furious. Furious. He’d  _ known  _ something like this would happen. He shouldn’t have let Ford go “dance” with Bill. Fuck, he should’ve taken Ford back home with him through the portal on the very first day, as  _ soon  _ as he got the chance. He was practically kicking himself for letting things get this out-of-hand.

He took the chance to slide into the open seat next to Ford’s as soon as he sat--barely able to hold himself upright, Stan noticed with another pang of guilt--and shot Bill a look that he hoped conveyed absolutely everything he was conveying in that moment. Bill’s return glance was entirely nonchalant, because of course it was.

Stan, of course, took this opportunity to try and let Ford in on his concerns. Maybe he didn’t realize how drunk Ford  _ was _ , or maybe he thought his brother would be able to process the information anyway. “Are you  _ okay _ ? Bill’s been...  _ really _ tearing into you, for like, an  _ hour _ , now.” It didn’t matter how in his right mind Ford was. Stan just needed him to  _ understand.  _

\--

Ford giggled  _ all _ the way back, waving to Bill's friends, the same people who had joined in tearing into him. They were Bill's friends, though, so of course they were fine. Good company, really. 

Ford probably would've taken  _ another _ drink (that would've been something like the seventh one of the night--maybe--he was losing count) until Bill instructed him not to; he waved himself a glass of water instead, as asked, and--oh, gross, that was  _ gross  _ going down; grossly clear, cold instead of burning hot,  _ purifying. _

" _ What? _ " God, Stan was such a party pooper. Could he stop raining on their parade for five whole minutes? Then again--a part of him worried that Stan was genuinely upset, and this part was enough to give him some empathy. "Stanley, we're just having fun, it's a party. Are you not having fun?" 

\--

Stan could barely believe what he was hearing. He stared at Ford for a beat or two, then looked up in the direction Bill had disappeared off to. There he was, getting...  _ really _ friendly with a couple of guests.

“Honestly? No, Ford! Everyone’s being  _ awful _ to you. It’s more than just joking around.” He kept his eyes on Bill as he spoke, frowning. The demon was dancing, again, similarly to how he’d been doing with Ford.  _ Too  _ similarly. “I don’t like it.”

This entire party was just the icing of the cake of what Stan had been suspecting from the beginning, but since that might have been a little much to lay on Ford, he changed tactics. “I mean—  _ look _ , he’s..” Was it a good idea to bring up what Bill was doing  _ now _ ? While Ford could barely stand? “Maybe you need to go to sleep for the night. This is rough.”

\--

That--those words--they irked Ford. He wasn’t some sort of baby, as much as Stan apparently thought he was one. "No." Ford he eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed into something dangerously hostile. The water had helped, and he was able to stand on his feet pretty easy. 

" _ No, _ Stanley, I'm not going to  _ bed, _ we've only just started." He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Nobody is being awful. Lighten up,  _ please. _ We're just having  _ fun. _ " And then he waved himself his seventh drink of the night, and made it a point to make direct eye contact with Stanley as he slammed it back in one go, vanishing the empty glass in midair and turning on his heel.

"Babe! Wait up!"

-

Stan recoiled slightly. He wasn’t used to that.  He was.

Seeing that kind of hostility from Ford was alarming, and a little scary, and it succeeded in shutting Stan down very quickly. He watched Ford go, stunned, and didn’t follow this time. He’d watch from a distance, this time. If Ford wanted to go fuck around with his boyfriend and ignore Stan--whatever. Like he said, he was n’t used to that already.

Briefly, he remembered being dragged out of a popular party by his brother, drunk and sick out of a dog, and how much of a  _ stink  _ he’d put on. But he’d left anyway, because taking care of his brother was what he did. So he’d stay here, at this popular party that he wanted nothing more than to leave while Ford basked in the spotlight, because taking care of his brother was what he did.

-

Bill was having considerably more  _ fun _ now that some human wasn’t hanging off onto him (literally) every second. When Ford came close again he couldn’t mask his clear annoyance, and he didn’t step away from the creature he’d been dancing with (very closely). “Stanford,” he said, a little caught off guard, “ _ love _ , I thought you were sitting down! Can’t have you  _ falling _ over, can we?”

Why couldn't Ford stay away for just a few more minutes? He was just getting around to having some proper fun.  _ Meeting  _ people for the first time properly. Party things! Now it was back to romance and sap central. His rope for the human was wearing thin. No knowing what might happen when it snapped.

\--

Bill was annoyed enough that Ford  _ would’ve _ been able to notice it with a clear head, but his head was far,  _ far _ from clear at the moment. 

“Stanley’s being a buzzkill.” Ford rolled his eyes at the ceiling, a very common gesture tonight; he decided to wait on drink number eight for now, thinking that  _ maybe _ slamming seven back so quickly had been a bad idea, but it had felt satisfying to do that in front of his brother. 

He blushed hard as ever at the nickname, and turned back to a row of chairs  _ elsewhere. _ “I mean, I can go back, if you want, but....” he pouted, gently. “He’s trying to put a damper on the fun, Bill. I’d rather be with You.” Alone with Bill, and maybe a few of these nice friends he had around.  _ That  _ was good company, company that cared about him and his life’s goals and his  dream school aspirations, and such.

\--   
  
The creature next to Bill leaned in;  _ is he always like this?  _ In response, Bill rolled his singular eye, leaning a bit harder against the stranger to answer.  _ Only when he’s drunk, which frankly, I’m beginning to think I should do more often!  _ The creature snickered--good--before he finally turned his attention back to Ford. 

“You can  _ stay _ , I’m not gonna make you do anything!” Bill finally stepped away from the creature (boo) and back over to Ford ( _ boo. _ ). “You’re so clingy!” This was one of the things that could pass as being a joke, or something fond, but it definitely wasn’t. 

He took Ford’s arm. “If you insist on being out and about, let me introduce you to some people you haven’t met!” This was where the fun began. On top of it all, this was a chance to prove he wasn’t attached to the human. Rumors had begun to spread, he’d heard.

\--   
  


Ford just stood there as they talked, grinning like an idiot. He didn’t quite know what Bill was joking about, but it sounded pretty funny. Bill was so funny. He’d ask about it later.. He simply giggled when he was called  _ clingy _ , hanging off Bill’s arm. It was something he would’ve said fondly, another time or place. So, of course, that must mean it meant the same here, right?

“Oh!” Ford chirped, eyebrows raising. “Oh, that sounds fun!” It did sound fun, meeting some more of Bill’s friends. He had so  _ many, _ and though he wasn’t a very jealous person, it worried him sometimes, the thought that he wasn’t enough. B

ut no. Bill had been so inclusive during this whole party, so warm, so kind. Admittedly, the past two hours were sort of blurring together, but he remembered the beginning vividly, the way Bill called him  _ love. _ That would last.

\--

It would not be fun.

Correction: it’d be  _ very _ fun for Bill. Less so for Ford. 

And it was. They danced, Bill performed some songs (ones that  _ he _ liked, for once), and drank some more. Bill flaunted Ford like a  _ trophy _ , and accompanied this with backhanded compliments and insults disguised as affection. This was fun. This was  _ fun.  _ It was so fun, in fact, that Bill barely noticed that Ford was gone until he turned to make a joke about his  _ freak _ ish tendencies again, and he was no longer standing there.

Whatever. Less drugs to slip into drinks. Thank god.

\--

What unfolded, Stan realized, was almost akin to classic highschool bullying, and he caught on  _ quickly _ . He couldn’t stand it. It  _ sucked _ to watch (both the dumb ‘ugh, my brother’s  _ that _ drunk guy,’ and the fact that he was being treated like dirt without even realizing).

So, it wasn’t very long at all before he stepped in. He felt obligated to. This party had just been the icing on the cake, and the cherry on top? Bill didn’t notice. He hardly even glanced at them when Stan tugged his brother away. Knowing that Ford wouldn’t understand why, and that he’d even be  _ angry _ at him for doing so, Stan said firmly, “You’re going to bed. Now.” The thought made him angry, but only because it made him hurt, somewhere deep inside he wasn’t going to acknowledge right now.

\--

"Stan,  _ stop. _ " Ford muttered, pulling his arm away, but he didn’t quite feel like he could get the words out, and he struggled to focus his eyes on his brother.  _ Come on, Fordsie.  _ He chided himself mentally.  _ Hold it together. _

He'd definitely had one or two (or four) more drinks. "'M not...going to bed, I'm having  _ fun, _ this is the best.......this is the first party I've ever been to, don't take it away from me!" Ford could tell Stan was jealous; or, at least, Ford  _ believed _ with certainty that it was jealousy. So typical of Stanley, really. He looked around for Bill uneasily, but couldn't spot him. This unnerved him; he felt at ease, here, but being around Bill's friends  _ without _ Bill still put him on edge, just a bit.

"I'll be fine until 's over, it'll be...over soon." (It would not be over soon.) "Wanna go up with Bill." His eyebrows furrowed, and he looked around again. "If....y're not havin' fun,  _ you _ go to bed."

\--   
  
“Bit too rough for your first party. You’ve had enough.” Ford was in the master, right? Stan decided to just... try it. What was there to  _ lose _ , at this point? 

He tuned Ford’s mumbled ramblings out for a few moments, and suddenly they were standing in another room. It was  _ massive _ , like they really were in a castle. Gold sheets, gold drapery, fine furniture, the whole nine yards.

Stan decided to skip the “awe” phase of all this. He waved a hand like he’d seen Ford and Bill do, and a glass of water appeared in his hand, which was cool, admittedly. He put it down a little too hard on the table next to the bed, and pointed at the bed itself. “Drink that. Go to sleep.” 

Actually, you know what? Nevermind.

“Listen, I do need to talk to you.” Stan said gently, sitting on the end of the bed after giving Ford a chance to drink. The water seemed to work well enough last time. Ford was hardly in his right mind, but...he couldn’t wait until the morning for this. He couldn’t let Bill get to him first. And- and you  _ have _ to promise not to just brush it off, immediately. You  _ have _ to hear me out, all the way through. Okay?”

“Of course, Stanley. You can tell me….’nything. Whatever….Is, ‘ll understand.” Slurred, yes, but a change in attitude away from the thumping music and bright lights, at least. A start. He took a deep breath.

“Bill. It’s- it’s about  _ him _ .” He was quiet for a few seconds. “I know you’re happy here, and that’s  _ great _ , okay? I’m happy for you, but I don’t...” He took a deep breath. “I don’t like Bill. I don’t trust him.” He paused again, to let it sink in before continuing. “He.. I  _ know _ you don’t remember this, and, hell, you didn’t care too much at the  _ time _ , either, but- Ford, he was being  _ awful _ to you, tonight. He’s... kind of always being awful to you, and I don’t think you see that.”

He felt awful, immediately, but also relieved. He didn’t know how isolated Ford had been, here, but... Stan felt like his brother needed to hear this from someone. If anything, it’d put the idea in his head that this was  _ bad _ . 

“He was- I mean, fuck, he was all over  _ everyone _ , too. Did you see any of that?”

"He's a complex being, Stanley." The words were out almost immediately, and Stan grimaced. Great. "Hard to understand, but....He loves me, Stanley. He can just be a bit....frivolous, sometimes. Erratic. He doesn't mean any harm. I was  _ born _ to love Him, Stanley." It was all very gentle, but there was a quiet sort of insistence behind it, too. 

Ford looked up,  _ suddenly, _ when Stan said that next part though, eyebrows furrowing. "....What do you mean all over everyone?" 

And here it came. Ford was supposed to sound mad, at Billl. Angry. The most little bit of upset.  _ Something.  _ But none of these things seemed apparent. I. He just sounded heartbroken, and he looked a little bit like a kicked puppy. Actually--no. He looked a lot more like a child being scolded. He looked guilty.

Of course, of  _ course _ Ford only seemed to care about hearing any of this when it came to Bill’s... other activities. It broke Stan’s heart, and made him angry, too.

“I  _ mean _ what I said, Ford. He was treating you like shit, all night, and then the second you sat down he spent all his time...  _ flirting _ , with pretty much anything that walked.” He took another deep breath and shook his head. “Sure, maybe it’s just because he’s ‘like that,’ but is that  _ really _ any sort of excuse? Think about it.” He watched, and he searched Ford’s expression, and it  _ hurt _ . It was sad. Stan would rather be talking about anything else, right now, than this. Ford looked so happy, whenever he talked about Bill, and Stan had tried. He’d really tried to accept it, but he couldn’t.

No, you're right, it's no excuse." Ford said immediately, burying his head in his hands. "I must've--shit.  _ Shit. _ I must've been acting like an  _ idiot. _ " 

He covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head, obviously trying to keep it together. "Stanley, He cares about me so much I can barely take it. He probably just needed a break from me, I have to find Him, I have to  _ apologize. _ " 

Wait.

Wait, wait, this wasn’t what Stan had meant to happen.

Shit.

_ Fuck _ . 

“Ford, no.  _ No _ , that’s not how you should be reacting to this! Hey-“ Stan walked over, quickly, and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, forcing him to sit back down. “No. Listen to me.  _ That _ ? What  _ Bill _ is doing? Is  _ not _ love. You aren’t listening to me. You haven’t made any mistakes; he’s acting this way because he  _ can _ . You’re... fucking  _ blind _ to what he’s doing, and you need to open your goddamn eyes, or you’re going to get  _ hurt _ . I don’t  _ want _ that for you. I know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but I care about you. I want you to be  _ actually _ happy, and I want you to feel safe. It’s obvious that you  _ don’t _ feel safe here. Not really.”

Ford cut him off.

"Bullshit." He spat back. "Stanley, I know that you're--unbelievably jealous? Or, possessive, or you want me to come home with you, or  _ something? _ But--" He laughed, bitterly. "Let me  _ once again _ try to get it through to you, Stanley. I am  _ home, _ here.  _ This _ is my home.  _ This _ is where I belong, and this is where I'm going to stay,  _ forever. _ Do you  _ understand? _ "

Ford was drunk. Stan understood that. This didn’t hurt any less. His hand drew back immediately, as if he’d been stung.

He waited. A beat. Two.

“You really believe that?” He genuinely didn’t  _ believe _ that could possibly be true. It couldn’t. 

But it was. T he truth of it? This was the one thing Ford did that he couldn’t  _ stand;  _ made him feel stupid. 

Then, his expression hardened and he shook his head. “You’re delusional,” he said, then, and his voice was  _ cold _ . “Fine.  _ Whatever _ . I tried. Good luck,  _ Poindexter _ , you’ll need it.”

And then, he left. He walked out, even though he could’ve teleported (he’d briefly forgotten this, but it was  _ also _ so much more satisfying to slam doors). He teleported after that, and appeared outside the door of the Fearamid, fuming. He didn’t care how he would get home. This was it. He was out.

\--

_ Bravo, Stanley, _ Bill thought as Ford’s brother made his way back home.  _ Bravo. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the HOME STRETCH, boys! about two left to go!!! Thanks for supporting thusfar, would love a comment if you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading thusfar if you have! This is definitely more on-the-line than anything I've written before, but judging by fandom interaction I really do finally believe there will be people interested!  
> If you're one of these people, and you've read thusfar, I'd really appreciate a comment. They keep me motivated to write more! Thank you so so much for enjoying!
> 
> <3 <3 <3


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